


A Question of Liberty

by riventhorn



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Colonial America, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-08
Updated: 2012-07-07
Packaged: 2017-11-09 10:00:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 31,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/454225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riventhorn/pseuds/riventhorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the kinkme_merlin prompt: <i>Arthur/Merlin colonial America AU.</i>  Set during the Revolutionary War.  Merlin is an indentured servant who arrives in America in 1774 and is quickly swept up in the coming Revolution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I originally wrote this following Series 2. I received thoughtful feedback from some readers that encouraged me to consider rewriting the Gwen/Lance storyline to be more historically accurate. I finally got a chance to do so and am now reposting the entire fic here. 
> 
> Disclaimer: no copyright infringement intended; no profit is being made from this

Arthur leaned across the table, bringing his palm down against the smooth wood. “It is a question of liberty,” he said firmly. “As citizens of the crown, we have certain rights—rights that are being trampled, disregarded. We are facing tyranny, gentlemen, and must act.”

Lancelot and Gareth nodded eagerly, but Gawain looked skeptical. “Yet taxes are necessary—they provide us with certain benefits. Protection for our colonists and ships, for one.”

“But we have a right to participate in the administration of those taxes!” Arthur retorted. “And if the king provides protection with one hand, he stifles us with the other. Further expansion westward blocked—for over ten years, now—and restrictions on whom we may trade with, what we may produce.”

“The subjugation of Boston could happen to any of us!” Gareth added. “You must see that Gawain. These vile laws—forcing us to provide quarter for lobster-backs, shutting down the port—what is to stop Parliament from forcing them onto the rest of the colonies?” 

Gawain shrugged, looking uneasy. “But armed revolt—”

“No one is suggesting that,” Arthur said quickly. “We are not advocating independence, simply a recognition of certain just and necessary reforms. This is 1774, not 1400—we are not serfs, forced to bow to the will of a despot.”

Gawain shook his head and downed the rest of his beer. “Tis a bad situation and likely to get worse before it gets better,” he commented and stood up, pulling on his hat. “Good day to you, lads.” He left the coffeehouse, ducking his broad frame through the door. 

Gareth sighed and reluctantly buttoned his jacket. “I had best go as well—father expects me down at the warehouse this afternoon.”

“And Miss Linesse usually promenades down High Street at this hour, too—how convenient,” Lancelot added with a grin. 

Gareth blushed. “If I should happen to run into her, I would count it as merely the happiest of coincidences,” he replied stiffly, and left to the sounds of Arthur and Lancelot chuckling. 

“Speaking of the fairer sex,” Arthur said to Lance, “would you care to accompany me out to Fairhill? I want to see how married life is treating Leon—and, of course, there is the chance you might catch a glimpse of Gwen.” 

Lance started to protest, but Arthur cut him off, “No use denying it, my friend. The way your eyes follow her betrays you.”

“I would never do anything—less than honorable,” Lance said, shifting uncomfortably.

Arthur laughed. “Gwen is Morgana’s maid, Lance. Honor hardly comes into it. She might be perfectly willing but how will you find out if you never speak to her? ‘Tis not as though you plan on asking her to marry you!”

Lance looked even more uncomfortable. “Of course. Thank you for the offer, but I cannot accept. I have business in town.” 

Arthur frowned but let the matter go. He returned home to change into his riding attire and then set out. Leon and Morgana had been married for two weeks now, and Arthur was anxious to find out how Leon was coping. In truth, he had been surprised when Morgana agreed to the match. Leon was a capital fellow, of course, and had inherited a substantial estate, but he seemed a bit too—mundane for Morgana’s tastes. Arthur suspected she had agreed because it got her away from Uther’s watchful guardianship, gave her the freedom to manage her own household. Still, he hoped she was being affectionate and kind to Leon and not letting her often sarcastic tongue get the better of her. 

As the crowded streets of Philadelphia fell behind him, Arthur felt his breath come more easily. He found the city so confining at times. As a boy, he had relished in the swirl of people, the fascinating bustle along the wharves, the fine buildings. But lately—well, his life had settled into a strict pattern of business and social events, overseen carefully by his father. No room for anything beyond attending to his responsibilities. And Morgana’s marriage had raised the question of when Arthur would get married himself. Uther had made a few thinly veiled hints about the many eligible young ladies that Arthur met at parties and dances. 

Arthur intended to find a wife, of course, but why the damnable rush? He hated feeling as though he were being pushed into things. So he relished the opportunity to at least escape from the city for a few hours, even if he could never avoid his responsibilities.

The wheat and barley looked healthy enough, Arthur noted as he rode through the fields before the manor house. They needed rain, though. It had been a dry, stifling July so far—hotter than usual. Today was no different—sunny, with hardly a breeze to break the heat. His hair was damp with sweat under his hat, and even though he wore the lightest coat he possessed, it still felt too hot. 

He urged his horse to a faster trot, eager to reach the house and the prospect of a refreshing glass of Madeira. When he pulled up at the stable, however, there was no one in sight except a dark haired boy that Arthur did not recognize. The boy was engaged in untangling a mess of ropes and halters and appeared oblivious to Arthur’s arrival. He wore a pair of rather threadbare breeches and a coat and flophat that had seen better days. He was skinny and pale, frowning in concentration as he bent over his task. Arthur vaguely recalled Leon mentioning getting a new servant from Captain Haelig and supposed it must be this boy.

Arthur cleared his throat expectantly. No response. Irritated, Arthur swung down from the horse and strode up to the boy, nudging him in the leg with his boot. “Are you deaf?” he demanded. 

The boy gaped up at him, startled, and then scrambled to his feet. “Um, sorry.” He glanced from Arthur to the horse and back again.

“Take care of my horse, you idiot,” Arthur snapped, shoving the reins into his hand. 

The boy flushed and opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again. “Yes. _Sir_ ,” he finally muttered in a most disrespectful tone and led Arthur’s horse into the stable.

Rolling his eyes, Arthur walked towards the house. He knocked on the door and was admitted by Gwen, who led him into the front parlor and then went to fetch Leon. Leon arrived a few minutes later.

“Arthur! What a pleasant surprise! Sit down, please.” Leon gestured, and Arthur took a seat by the window in the hopes of catching a breeze. “A glass of wine?”

“Yes, thank you.” Arthur surveyed Leon as he poured out two glasses of Madeira. “You seem to be surviving marriage to Morgana better than I expected.”

Leon laughed, handing Arthur his wine and sitting down himself. “It may surprise you Arthur, but Morgana is really a most charming woman.”

“Sometimes I think she must have cast a spell on you,” Arthur replied, smiling.

Leon laughed again. “Then I would call her a most charming witch. No—our relations have been most amiable. Although, she does hold some rather…interesting notions that I was not aware of.”

“Ah, so Morgana gave you her speech about granting women greater liberties, did she?” Arthur took a sip of wine. “All that nonsense about married women being allowed to own their own property, giving women the right to vote.”

“She was quite vehement.”

“Yes, she is that. Best to let her have her say,” Arthur advised. “Talking her out of her wrongheaded opinions is impossible—my father tried to for years with no results.”

Morgana entered the room at that juncture, managing to appear as collected and serene as ever despite the heat. Arthur gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Leon still seems to be in love with you.”

“And why should he not be?” Morgana demanded with a smile for Leon, who was holding a chair out for her with an absolutely besotted look on his face. “I only treat you like a spoiled infant because you behave like one.” 

“Indeed, you _are_ as charming as ever,” Arthur noted, sitting back down. “Father sends his regards.” 

“We must have you both to dinner. Perhaps next week.” Morgana settled her skirts. “I shall invite Mr. and Mrs. Wodehouse as well. Show her how a true American holds a dinner party. I heard that she actually served East India tea! If we are to make the king change his mind, we must show a united front. None of this grumbling about going without certain comforts. I honestly cannot abide fools like her—unwilling to make the smallest sacrifices!”

“Speaking of fools,” Arthur said, “your latest servant appears to have some sort of mental affliction.” 

Leon raised an eyebrow. “Merlin? What did he do?”

“Completely ignored me at first and hardly spoke with the proper sort of respect. Was he the best you could find?”

Leon shrugged. “Half of them had the fever, and the other half looked the worst sort of criminals. Merlin at least seemed honest. I need someone who won’t take it into his head to run away for the frontier before his six years are up.” He frowned. “I will speak to him, though. Make sure he understands his duties.” 

*

Merlin twisted his hat in his hands, staring down at the ground as Leon lectured him. He bit back the protests that rose to his lips. Why should he have to be polite when he was the one who had been insulted first? But complaining would not get him anywhere except into worse trouble. So he merely said, “Yes, sir. It will not happen again, sir,” and breathed a sigh of relief when Leon left without any mention of further punishment. 

A gentle hand on his arm startled him, and he turned around to find Gwen smiling at him. “I did not take you for a troublemaker, Merlin.”

“I’m not!” Merlin protested. “I just—I forgot my place. That man who was here this afternoon, I didn’t treat him with the proper respect. Not that he _deserved_ my respect,” he added, angrily scuffing his boot against the ground. 

“Ah, so you met Arthur, then.”

“Was that his name? Arthur?”

Gwen nodded. “His father is Uther Pendragon, Mistress Morgana’s guardian.”

“He’ll likely be a frequent visitor, then?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” Gwen replied, smiling again at Merlin’s despairing groan. “Now come, cook has supper ready and the other boys will eat it all if you do not hurry.” 

Merlin followed her to the kitchen, once more thankful that Gwen was here and had befriended him. Fairhill was a large estate and boasted a good many servants. Planting, harvesting, and tending to the crops were Merlin’s main duties, but of course, there were many other tasks to be done. He did not mind the work, particularly not when he received regular meals, but beyond Gwen, the other servants had remained aloof—polite yet unwilling to be easy and friendly with him.

It was his own fault, Merlin knew, and he cursed himself again for being so stupid. How often had his mother told him to be careful, to guard against anyone finding out? It had just been the—the _newness_ of this place. So far from anything he had known before. Far from the crowded streets of London, the succession of miserable, cramped rooms, the painful memory of the stone farmhouse, sequestered in its little valley. 

Merlin had felt free—as though anything were possible. So two days after he arrived at Fairhill, when he had been sent off to work in one of the outlying fields, he had relaxed his guard, allowed himself to forget for a moment. He was supposed to have been chopping up some trees that had been cut down in preparation for clearing another acre of cropland. It had been warm, insects humming in the tall grass, and after a few minutes of swinging the axe, Merlin had given in to temptation. A quick gesture, his magic thrumming through his veins, and the axe kept chopping while Merlin stretched out in the shade, taking in the new plants, the new smells, the new sounds. 

He had barely heard the footsteps in time. The snap of a branch was the only warning. The axe had dropped to the ground as John, one of the other farmhands, stepped into the clearing. Merlin had scrambled to his feet.

“Merlin,” John had begun and then trailed off, staring from the axe, to Merlin, and back again. “A strange thing—I swore I heard the axe. But how could that be with you idling in the shade?”

Merlin had swallowed against a dry throat. “You must have been mistaken,” he managed to say. “I—I will get back to work. Prithee, do not tell anyone that I was idling.”

John had grinned and told Merlin not to worry, but his eyes had remained puzzled, considering. He did not know what John had whispered to the other servants, but after that they had kept their distance. Either the rumors had not reached Gwen or she had ignored them, and Merlin was grateful. 

He only saw Gwen at odd moments throughout the day, though. After seeing him to the kitchen, she left again, disappearing into the manor. Supper, the final chores of the day, and then Merlin was lying in his blankets in the corner that had been allotted to him in one of the outbuildings. He felt profoundly alone. Worse, with nothing to occupy him, he could not ignore the magic, which always clung to the edges of his consciousness. To take his mind off it, he imagined that he had someone back in England to write to. He thought about the letter he would send, describing the voyage, what the colonies were like. But now that his mother was dead—there was no one else. 

Curling onto his side, Merlin resisted the desire to use his magic that welled up in him. _I cannot. ‘Tis unnatural—wrong._ He no longer clung to the hope that if he did not use it, the magic would disappear. For so long he had tried to resist it, but despite his best efforts, it was always there. And he could never overcome the temptation to use it—like the other day in the woods with the axe. 

He possessed a vague memory of his father, kneeling next to him, his hand on Merlin’s shoulder.  
 _It is a gift, Merlin_ , his father had said. _You must use it wisely_. 

But his father had died soon after. There was no one to answer Merlin’s questions, to show him how to use his magic. Instead there were only the stories, whispered among the other children, of witches and sorcery and the devil. 

Lying there in the dark, alone, all the familiar fear and shame returned. _I am not evil_. But he did not understand why he had magic. What had he done that was so wrong? He could not believe his father or mother had anything to do with it. Hunith, who had been so kind and gentle to everyone. And Balinor, who, in Merlin’s few memories, was also kind, if a bit gruff and stern. No, it must be retribution for some sin he had committed, unknowing. 

*

The morrow found Merlin hoeing weeds, the hot sun glaring down. Straightening for a moment to work the crick out of his neck, he saw Gwen coming across the field towards him. He waved at her, and she waved back, holding up her skirts to keep them out of the dirt. 

“You look tired,” she said when she reached him. “And you need to put on some more of that salve I gave you—your nose is peeling again.” One day in the fields had been enough to leave Merlin sunburned, and Gwen had brought him a soothing balm, rubbing it onto the back of his neck for him while Merlin slathered it onto his nose. 

“Right.” Merlin sighed and looked at the large patch of ground he had still to hoe. “As soon as I finish this.”

“Ah, but that’s my good news.” Gwen smiled. “Morgana wishes me to fetch her some things in town and said you could come along, too.” She grabbed his arm and started tugging him along. “If we walk slowly enough, we shan’t be back till late afternoon.”

Merlin willingly abandoned his hoe and followed her, pausing only to wash the dirt off his hands under the pump. 

“So what things must you fetch?” Merlin asked as they turned out onto the road.

Gwen hesitated. “You must promise not to tell anyone,” she said at last.

“If it is a secret, you do not have to speak,” Merlin began uncomfortably, feeling a blush creep over his face. “I know there are certain herbs that…well, that ladies sometimes take to…to—”

Gwen interrupted, laughing. “Oh, ‘tis nothing like that, Merlin. Morgana wants children. No, it is only that Leon might be angry with her, if he knew. Morgana has quite a bit of learning, you know, and is skilled in politics. She thinks that women are just as capable of education as men.” 

“You agree with her?”

“Yes.” Gwen fixed Merlin with a challenging gaze. 

“I agree, too,” Merlin said hastily, though in truth he had never given the matter much thought.

Gwen’s smile turned fond. “Morgana seeks to follow Madame Geoffrin’s example. Can you not picture her there—in a salon in Paris, holding court with the famous philosophers and artists?”

Merlin, who had felt quite awed by Morgana’s poise and beauty when he first met her, could well imagine her in Paris, though he did not know who Madame Geoffrin was.

Gwen laughed. “Of course, Pennsylvania is a far cry from Paris, but Morgana at least likes to keep abreast of the latest notions and ideas. Mr. Leigh, who prints the _Gazette_ , kindly supplies her with books and pamphlets. He never told Uther and will not say anything to Leon, either. He just sent word that he has a book that Morgana requested.”

“Have you read any of these books?” Merlin asked, curious.

“Some of them,” Gwen admitted. “Many of them are in French or German, though, which I cannot read.”

“Well, you sound very knowledgeable,” Merlin told her admiringly. “You should go to Paris yourself.”

Gwen blushed. “Me, to Paris? What an absurd idea, Merlin! Though it must be a fascinating place—all those palaces and cathedrals. I’ve seen pictures of the French _dauphine_ —well, she’s the queen now. She dresses in the most beautiful fashions. Have you ever been there, to Paris?”

Merlin shook his head. “No. Just London. And I never saw the queen.” 

“Still, you’ve traveled further than I have. But how do you find the colonies? Are you glad you came?”

Merlin shrugged. “I didn’t have a choice, really. There was no work to be had in London—leastways, not for me. I don’t know a trade.” He took a deep breath. “As for here—I cannot say yet. I want to like it, but ‘tis strange—different.”

“Soon it will feel like home,” Gwen assured him, and Merlin wished he could believe her.

* 

They arrived in Philadelphia to find the streets a bustle of activity. Gwen proceeded confidently, sure of her way, and Merlin stayed close. They were just passing an imposing brick structure that Gwen proudly told him was a hospital—the first one to be built in the colonies—when someone called out Gwen’s name. Turning, Merlin saw a young man hurrying across the street. He wore a fine coat and hat, his dark hair unpowdered and tied at the nape of his neck. 

“Mr. DuLac,” Gwen exclaimed, and blushed.

“Miss Howard,” the man said, giving Gwen a short bow. He had a French accent and was the first person Merlin had heard hail Gwen in such a polite manner. “And I must insist you call me Lance.” 

Gwen smiled, but Merlin thought she looked a little sad. “This is Merlin Emrys,” Gwen said, pulling Merlin forward. “He has just arrived from England and is working for Mr. Galloway.” 

“Mr. Emrys,” Lance said, nodding. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” He looked back at Gwen. “What errand brings you to town? Your father has not taken ill, I trust?”

“Oh, no. Mrs. Galloway needed me to fetch her a few things, that is all.”

Lance held out his arm. “Then, if it is not a pressing matter, perhaps you would like some refreshment on this hot day. There is a delightful shop around the way that sells sorbets and ice creams.”

Gwen hesitated.

“Go on,” Merlin told her. “I can attend to the errand myself.” 

“Thank you, Merlin,” Gwen said. “But I cannot—” She swallowed, and Merlin realized that she was blinking back tears. “Mr. DuLac, you must stop this immediately,” she said in a rush, as though if she hesitated, she could not bear to say the words. “Your reputation—it will be ruined if you are seen walking around the town with me.”

Lance frowned. “What harm could be done to my reputation by escorting a lovely young lady such as yourself?”

Gwen shook her head. “You know my family’s history,” she said softly. “My father may be a freeman, but my grandmother was not. And the laws—”

“Do not forbid me from treating you to an ice cream,” Lance said firmly.

Gwen sighed, but she took Lance’s arm. “If you do not mind, Merlin—just go round to the corner of sixth and Mulberry streets and you’ll see the shop. You can meet me back here.”

“Of course,” Merlin said. He could not help staring as Lance patted Gwen’s hand. To be so openly defiant—he thought of his own secret, and shivered. 

Merlin had to ask a few people for directions but eventually found himself standing in front of Mr. Leigh’s shop. Its window was smudged and dirty, the paint on the sign peeling. Pushing the door open, he stepped inside and stopped abruptly. The room was quite extraordinary—stacks of books and pamphlets everywhere—more books than Merlin had ever seen in one place before. A number of plants—some dried, some still alive and in pots—clustered along the shelves. The skeleton of a fish, carefully reassembled and tied together, stood on the counter. Several stuffed dead birds occupied one of the shelves. Rolled maps spilled out of an old flour barrel. In the back, Merlin could make out a long brass tube that he thought might be a telescope, although he had only heard them described. No one was in the shop, although Merlin could hear noises through an adjoining door.

Staring about him, Merlin edged closer to one of the stacks of books. The one on top seemed well worn, as though it had been read often. With his finger, Merlin traced the letters, slowly sounding them out. “ _Four Dis—Dissertations. The Natural History of Religion. Of the Passions. Of Tra—Tragedy. Of the Standard of Taste_. By David Hume.” Merlin glanced up, but the shop was still empty, so he opened the book. “As every en-,” Merlin stopped, frowning. “Enquiry,” he decided, and went on, “which decides Religion, is of the utmost importance, there are two questions—”

“An engaging and provocative work, that is,” a voice said, and Merlin jumped guiltily, letting the book fall shut. 

He turned to find that an elderly man had come in from the other room. His wig was askew on his head, and ink stained his waistcoat and fingers. He smiled at Merlin. “What do we have here? A budding natural philosopher?”

“Me? Uh, no,” Merlin stammered. “I was just—that is, I came to see Mr. Leigh.”

“Well, I am Mr. Leigh,” the man said, “although you may call me Gaius.” 

“Yes, sir. That is, Gaius.” Merlin shifted, feeling nervous under the man’s steady but curious gaze. “Gwen—I mean, Miss Howard—asked me to pick up a book for Mrs. Galloway.”

“Ah, you must be a new servant up at Fairhill, then. What is your name?”

“Merlin.”

“Very well, Merlin.” Gaius rummaged behind the counter. “Here is the book for Morgana. Montesquieu’s _De L’Esprit des Lois_. You can bring her the latest addition of the _Gazette_ as well.” Then he reached over and picked up the book Merlin had been reading. “And I think you had best borrow this.”

“I—I cannot really read all that well,” Merlin admitted. 

“Then you need to practice,” Gaius told him, and Merlin hesitantly took the book, smoothing his fingers over the leather cover.

“Thank you,” Merlin said softly.

“I expect you will take good care of it,” Gaius added.

“Oh, yes,” Merlin assured him, and repeated his thanks. 

“Tis my pleasure, Merlin. A man likes others to be interested in what he himself finds captivating.”

“Did you collect all these, then?” Merlin asked, waving his hand at the many objects cluttered together about the room.

“Yes. I seek a better understanding of our world. And such an understanding can only come through careful observation, through the application of reason.” Gaius took off his spectacles and polished them on his shirt. “All the absurd notions that are propagated by superstition and ignorance!”

“So, studying plants and birds helps you figure things out?” Merlin persisted, still not quite understanding.

“That is the idea.” Gaius sighed. “Though answers do not come easily. _‘When I tried to walk in this infinite quarry open before me, I could neither find a single path, nor discern plainly a single object; and from the leap I made to contemplate eternity, I fell back again into the abyss of my ignorance._ ’ ” 

Merlin frowned, confused. 

“Voltaire,” Gaius explained. “Another book for another day, Merlin. You had best be on your way, though. We both have work to attend to.”

“Yes, sir. And thank you again,” Merlin said, carefully holding the books as he left the shop and hurried back towards the hospital to meet Gwen.

His mind was half on the things Gaius had said and half on not losing his way when he rounded a corner and saw Arthur Pendragon coming down the street. Merlin froze, and then turned around quickly, making for an alleyway. Hopefully he could duck down it before Arthur noticed him.

Luck was not with him, however. “Have your manners improved any?” Arthur called out.

Merlin gritted his teeth and kept walking. 

“Oh, don’t run away,” Arthur continued, sounding amused.

Merlin stopped and turned around. “From you?”

“Thank God.” Arthur smirked. “I thought you were deaf as well as dumb.” He stopped a pace or two in front of Merlin and eyed the books in Merlin’s arms. “Can you even read?”

“Yes,” Merlin replied, scowling. “Perhaps you ought to try it sometime. If you look up the word ‘ass’ you might even find a picture of yourself.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Still just as ill mannered, I see.” He stepped aside and gave a mock bow. “Well, don’t let me keep you. I doubt frittering away the afternoon in town is on your list of duties.”

Merlin scowled harder and pushed past Arthur. He probably would tell Leon, and Merlin would get into more trouble. 

When he found Gwen, she did not look too happy, either. “What’s wrong?” Merlin asked her. “Did you quarrel with Lance?”

She shook her head, but didn’t offer any other explanation. “Let’s go back,” she said instead, and started walking, Merlin following her. 

“He’s studying at the college,” Gwen said when they were out of town, once more passing by fields of wheat. “Lance, I mean. He’s studying to become a doctor. He hails from the French colony in Louisiana, and his father is wealthy enough that he wouldn’t have to work at all, but Lance says he wants to find some useful employment—that he wants to help people. All the ladies think he is quite noble, of course,” she added, sounding bitter. 

“And what do you think?” Merlin asked carefully.

“I think he is—most admirable,” Gwen replied in a choked voice. “But he has the pick of every unmarried woman in Philadelphia. And I a colored woman, a servant.”

“That shouldn’t matter,” Merlin said fiercely. “Not if he loves you. And it looked to me like he was quite taken with you, Gwen.” 

Gwen sighed again and wiped away tears from her cheeks. “If I did not know that Lance could never be cruel, I would think he was simply teasing me. The law forbids a marriage between the two of us. If we should dare make the attempt—Lance could go to prison and I would be forced into bondage.”

“The law is wrong, then!” Merlin said, passionate. “You are thoughtful, and generous, and kind, Gwen. Your character is finer than that of many English women I have known.”

Gwen squeezed his hand. “Thank you, Merlin,” she said, “but I know there is really no hope. Lance and I—we are just deluding ourselves. If I wasn’t such a coward, I would tell him so.”

Merlin wished he could tell her that there was hope, but he knew as well as she did that laws could not be changed by the likes of them. So he settled for putting a comforting arm around Gwen’s shoulders. 

*

Arthur watched Merlin disappear down the street. He had never met anyone so impertinent and aggravating. Where Merlin got it into his head that he could just go around insulting people—although God knew, Merlin had probably had an indifferent education. His parents had probably done nothing to instruct him in the basic arts of civility—if he even knew who his parents were.

More proof of the evils that sprouted in cities, that followed whenever men were forced to labor for others with no hope of betterment. God preserve the colonies from ever suffering the plagues that ravaged London—the ignorance, the poverty, the squalor. Pennsylvania must strive to do better by her citizens. Offer every man the chance of owning his own land, owning his own property. Of course, they could accomplish nothing if Parliament tied their hands—kept them shackled to a government an ocean away. 

“You look upset, Arthur,” his father said when Arthur came into the dining room, slightly late for dinner thanks to his encounter with Merlin.

“We are surrounded by ignorant simpletons,” Arthur replied, pulling out the _Gazette_ and unfolding it as he sat down. “Just listen to this fellow—I have never heard such twaddle in my life.” He cleared his throat and began to read. “‘To the inhabitants of the British Colonies in America: Never did America behold so alarming a time as the _present_. The _parent state_ is big with resentment against us for our late proceedings…How shall the dispute between us be adjusted? How shall a firm foundation be laid for a _future_ permanent union? Surely not by opposing a _military force_ , which, in the event, must infallibly overpower us…Surely not by a general convention, for _tha_ t is a measure which _never_ should be adopted.” 

Arthur tossed the paper down in disgust. “The convention is the only sure method of proceeding! All the colonies need to agree on a course of action. And his claims that we would have no chance if it came to a fight—the British army is riddled with incompetence!”

Uther frowned. “It is a valid point, Arthur. The British navy is the best in the world, and the army has proved itself many times before. If the colonies—God forbid—were to contemplate rebellion—we would not stand a chance.”

“You cannot know that,” Arthur retorted. “We would be fighting for our homes, for _freedom_ , for our God-given liberties.”

“And I do not want to hear you speaking in support of this Continental Congress,” Uther went on sternly. “Tis bad enough they have chosen to meet in our city.”

“Leon’s father is one of the delegates,” Arthur pointed out. “You respect Joseph Galloway, and he does not want separation with England.”

“Joseph will try and cool the hotheads, ‘tis true. But there are too many impetuous men—Samuel Adams, Patrick Henry—their words will be the ones that are heard.”

“You must think beyond your own economic self-interest for once, father!” Arthur exclaimed. “Just because the British navy protects your ships does not mean—”

“How dare you!” Uther cut him off. “You will not speak to me that way, Arthur. The Pendragons have always been—and will continue to be—loyal subjects of the king. I expect you to uphold our family’s honor.”

“It is honorable to do what is _right_.”

“We will speak no more of this,” Uther said with an air of finality. “I expect you to accompany me to the office this afternoon and do some useful work. I don’t want to see you off in the coffeehouses and taverns with your equally disillusioned friends.”

“Yes, father,” Arthur muttered. He would have to rely on Leon to keep him informed of the Congress’s deliberations and find excuses to go out to Fairhill. Morgana, at least, would listen to him with a sympathetic ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My goal is to be fairly historically accurate in this fic. One exception to this is Merlin’s magic, although I’m trying to make his reaction to it realistic. 
> 
> The opening scene takes place in the London Coffee House, built in Philadelphia in 1702. Coffehouses served some alcohol, but also tea, hot chocolate, and of course, coffee! They were popular meeting places where men discussed politics. The London Coffee House attracted many wealthy and influential Philadelphians and also served as a place of trade and commerce. Slave auctions were held on its porch. During the Revolution, after the Declaration of Independence was read publicly for the first time in 1776, “the royal arms were ripped down from the supreme court chamber at the State House, carried to the coffeehouse, and burned before a cheering mob.”
> 
> Fairhill was also an actual estate outside of Philadelphia, originally built by Isaac Norris Sr., a Quaker planter from Jamaica. 
> 
> Madame Geoffrin, mentioned by Gwen, was a wealthy widow who lived in Paris and had a salon that attracted many famous thinkers and artists of the Enlightenment. 
> 
> Slavery was as important to the Northern colonies as it was to the Southern colonies. Although by this period in Pennsylvania, indentured servants had mostly replaced slaves due to economic reasons, slavery was still legal and there were also many black freemen and women in Pennsylvanian society. Pennsylvania, as well as many other colonies, had an anti-miscegenation law, passed in 1725, which prohibited marriage between whites and blacks. If a free black man or woman broke the law, they would be punished by being enslaved. 
> 
> David Hume’s _The Natural History of Religion_ was an example of an Enlightenment thinker challenging organized religion. Montesquieu’s _Spirit of the Laws_ , which Gaius gives to Morgana, opposed the divine right of kings and supported constitutional government.
> 
> Gaius quotes from Voltaire’s _Philosophical Dictionary_ and the section on “ignorance.” I’ve depicted Gaius as someone committed to Enlightenment ideals—the belief in reason and knowledge, in “natural rights” such as freedom of the press and freedom of religion.
> 
> The letter in the newspaper that Arthur reads is an excerpt from an actual letter, printed in the _New-York Gazetteer_ on July 7, 1774.
> 
> Joseph Galloway was a real person, who did serve in the Continental Congress but who did not, to my knowledge, have a son called Leon!


	2. Chapter 2

Crouching down in a patch of warm autumn sunlight behind the barn, Merlin bit into an apple and pulled Gaius’s book out of his jacket. Quickly, he flipped to the page he had marked, reading the by now familiar words over again:

_A purpose, an intention, a design is evident in every thing…Even the contrarieties of nature, by discovering themselves every where, become proofs of some consistent plan, and establish one single purpose or intention, however inexplicable and incomprehensible._

It had taken him many weeks to actually read _The Natural History of Religion_. He had to puzzle out words, ask Gwen about ones he didn’t understand (with Gwen asking Morgana if she didn’t know), and he could never snatch more than a few minutes a day to spend with the book. But it had been worth it. 

Merlin felt as though a floodgate had opened in his mind, bringing a rush of new ideas, of things he had never considered or even knew existed. But this passage had been the most precious discovery. Because it suggested that even if he did not understand his magic, there was a reason for it. His magic was not a curse, but simply an—unknowable entity. And perhaps if he followed Gaius’s maxims of observation and experimentation, he might be able to understand his magic, use it to some purpose. He did not have to be afraid of it or feel ashamed.

This realization had been freeing, and Merlin was entertaining the idea of telling Gaius about his magic, asking his advice. He had managed to get the afternoon free, in fact, to go see Gaius on the pretence of returning the book. Merlin wasn’t sure if he actually would reveal his secret—the thought still made his palms start sweating from fear—but he did not think he could stand keeping it all locked up inside him forever.

When he entered Gaius’s shop that afternoon, Gaius was sitting at the counter, writing busily. He smiled when he saw Merlin. 

“I finished the book,” Merlin said, holding it out. 

“And I trust it was at least somewhat enlightening?”

“Oh, yes. Could I—could I borrow another?”

Gaius waved his hand. “Of course. Pick out whatever strikes your fancy.” 

Merlin wandered among the stacks of books, wondering how to broach the subject of his magic. “Gaius,” he asked at last, “have you ever encountered something unexplainable?”

“Many times, Merlin. Many times,” Gaius replied, not looking up from his work. 

“What about—” Merlin took a deep breath. “What about magic?”

“Magic?” Gaius frowned and laid down his quill. “I suppose some things can seem like magic until a rational explanation can be found.”

“I can do magic,” Merlin blurted. “I don’t know why. But I can.” He waited, heart pounding.

“Really?” Gaius gave Merlin an indulgent smile. “Well, perhaps you could demonstrate for me.”

Gaius did not believe him. Merlin’s hands were trembling, and he clenched them into fists. He stared at the stack of papers next to Gaius and willed it to rise into the air. 

Gaius’s reaction would have been comical if Merlin hadn’t been so terrified. He jolted backwards, toppling his stool, staring at Merlin. Slowly, he reached out and touched the papers, jerking his fingers back. “Merlin…” Gaius breathed. “That is—truly incredible. Your eyes appeared burnished for a second. A manifestation of this…power, I suppose.”

Merlin let the papers fall back onto the counter. “In the book—he said that even if some things cannot be explained, that does not mean there isn’t a reason for them. That means—that means that my magic is not evil, right?”

Gaius looked at Merlin for a long moment. “Come here, Merlin,” he said at last and cleared off another stool so that Merlin could sit next to him. Merlin perched on it, feeling uncomfortable and nervous.

“I’m afraid I cannot explain your, for lack of a better word, magic,” Gaius said. He took a deep breath. “I confess that it astounds me. If I had not seen it with my own eyes—It opens up a whole new realm of possibilities. As to whether it is evil—consider a knife, Merlin.”

“A knife?”

Gaius nodded. “In one person’s hands, it can be employed to slice food, to cut rope, to whittle a peg. In another person’s hands, however, it can be used for murder, to injure another. The knife itself is neither good nor evil—it depends solely on the person who uses it.”

“So my magic is like a tool?”

“Yes. And since I suspect that you wish to use it for good, Merlin, I would not concern yourself over the intrinsic properties of your magic. Have you always been able to move objects like that?”

Merlin nodded. Relief at Gaius’s words, relief that Gaius hadn’t cursed him or thrown him out, washed over him, and Merlin felt tears springing to his eyes. He rubbed them away, blushing.

“There, Merlin.” Gaius laid a hand on his shoulder. “I am honored that you chose to trust me with this information. I assure you that I will try to help you, as I can. However, you have been wise to not speak of this openly. I would urge you to continue to keep your magic hidden—only tell those whose integrity you are certain of.” 

Merlin nodded and managed a smile. 

Gaius stood up and fetched a fresh sheet of paper. “Now, Merlin, why don’t you try and explain to me how your magic works?”

*

Merlin left Gaius’s several hours later, feeling tired but happy. Gaius had actually encouraged him to use his magic. True, Merlin had accidentally set fire to a stack of old newspapers, but after throwing a bucket of water over them, Gaius had calmed Merlin, assuring him that accidents were inevitable. When Merlin had started feeling dizzy, Gaius had speculated that doing magic obviously required energy on Merlin’s part, and they had better stop for the day. 

Clouds were building up, and some raindrops spattered in the dirt. Merlin still had a few miles to walk, and he resigned himself to getting wet. He couldn’t really care, though, not when it had been such a wonderful few hours. 

He turned his head at the sound of hooves galloping along the road. He recognized the horse—Arthur’s. Well, it was too much to ask for the entire day to be without its share of tribulations. Arthur had often come to Fairhill in the past weeks, although he seemed to have settled for ignoring Merlin as opposed to insulting him. Fully prepared for Arthur to gallop on past, Merlin was surprised when Arthur slowed his horse to a walk. 

He glanced up to find Arthur looking expectantly down at him. What did he want, for Merlin to bow to him? Managing to hold back a sarcastic comment, Merlin stopped and snatched off his hat. 

“Well, come on, then,” Arthur said, holding out his hand. Merlin blinked up at him, confused.

“Would you hurry up?” Arthur demanded. “Tis going to rain soon, and I don’t fancy getting caught in it.” 

Apparently Arthur was offering him a ride. Too dumbstruck to say anything, Merlin took Arthur’s proffered hand and scrambled up behind him. He had little experience riding horses, and had to clutch Arthur when the horse started moving again. 

“Did you think I was going to leave you to walk?” Arthur asked.

“Yes,” Merlin replied, and Arthur laughed. 

“I suppose I can see why.” Arthur twisted around and looked at Merlin. “What were you doing? Adding to your library?”

Merlin flushed. “I was talking to Gaius—I mean, Mr. Leigh. And yes, he gave me another book to borrow.”

“Some obscure philosophical tome, if I know Gaius. He tutored Morgana and me when we were younger, you know.” Arthur laughed again, although this time there was note of bitterness in it. “I think my father regrets it now. Morgana ‘discommoded her pretty face with passions and resentment,’ as he puts it, and I have turned into a ‘damned rebel.’”

“So you want to break away from England?”

“No! At least—not if they will listen to reason.” Arthur’s hands worried at the reins. “But—well, a man has to stand fast by what he believes. We cannot demand redress of our grievances if we do not make it clear there will be consequences in the event our pleas go unrecognized.” 

“But your father doesn’t agree?” Merlin asked softly as they rode into the stable yard. 

“No. No, he does not.” Arthur sighed and pulled the horse to halt. Merlin slid off, and Arthur followed.

“I suppose you want me to take care of your horse,” Merlin said.

Arthur glanced at him, and a smile tugged at his mouth. “Why yes, Merlin. Considering ‘tis your _job_.”

Merlin grabbed the reins from Arthur and started walking away.

“Thank you,” Arthur said from behind him. 

Merlin turned around, taken aback, but Arthur was already heading for the manor. So Arthur could actually be polite—a day for miracles indeed.

*

“This is what the Congress will be sending to Parliament?” Arthur asked, studying the paper Leon had handed him.

“Yes—a Declaration of Resolves. It outlines our rights, as we see them.” Leon pointed to a particular passage. “The Congress has also agreed on a policy of nonimportation of all British goods. We will not sell American goods to the British, either. Of course, the Virginia delegates protested that. They will probably manage to get the effective date pushed back so the tobacco and rice crops can be sold.” 

“Still, ‘tis something.” Arthur handed the paper back to Leon and began pacing the room. “And even if Georgia did not sign, twelve of us are enough to show how much support there is for this! How do you think the king and Parliament will respond?”

Leon shrugged. “Hard to know. I doubt they will be happy about it.” 

“Tis their own fault,” Morgana put in scornfully. “Letting North pass the Intolerable Acts. What did they imagine would happen? I have already spoken to Mrs. Reed,” Morgana added. “She agrees that we should form a Ladies’ Patriotic Guild in Philadelphia and issue our own resolve in support of nonimportation.”

“Your own resolves?” Arthur laughed. “Morgana, the Parliament will hardly care what a few women think.”

Morgana narrowed her eyes. “Are not women the ones who cook the meals? Do not women sew the clothes? If we agree to use American products, to refuse to wear cloth of British manufacture or drink tea, then I assure you, Arthur, that Parliament will care.”

“Well, do not let father hear of your Resolves, or he is likely to ban you from his house.” 

Morgana’s face softened. “Uther will not change his mind, then?”

“No.” Arthur sighed. “He thinks I am besmirching the family’s honor.”

“Well, you are not,” Morgana said firmly. “Uther will see reason eventually.”

“Perhaps,” Arthur replied, although they both knew that Uther’s opinions, once fixed, could rarely be changed. 

Morgana insisted that Arthur stay to supper. When he left, another servant brought him his horse. There was no sign of Merlin. Arthur was irritated to find that this fact registered with him. All because he could remember the feeling of Merlin’s warm breath against his neck, and how Merlin’s arms had slid around him. No. No, that was not a direction that Arthur would allow his thoughts to wander. Those few encounters when he was younger—they were in the past. He would be risking ridicule and worse to give in to such unnatural desires now. Merlin certainly was not worth it in any case. Pushing Merlin from his mind, Arthur mounted his horse and rode off, Fairhill dwindling into the night behind him. 

*

Morgana hosted her first large dinner party at the beginning of January. Snow covered the ground, and the wheels of the carriages squeaked in the cold as they rolled up to the house. The ladies hurried inside amid a rustling of skirts while the men lingered for a few moments to greet acquaintances, their breath fogging in the night air. 

Merlin had been ordered to make sure the fires and candles stayed burning, and to carry drinks and food from the kitchen to the manor. The path was slippery, worn to an icy sheet from people hurrying along it all day. Merlin slid along it, trying to balance a tray of hot drinks. 

The warmth of the manor welcomed him as he slipped in the back door and threaded his way through the crowd to place his tray on a side table. He spotted Gwen, standing in a corner, and went over to her, putting off going back out into the cold for a moment. Gwen was smiling, and she caught his arm. “Lance just arrived,” she whispered. “He does look handsome, doesn’t he?” 

Lance was talking to Leon and Morgana. A moment later, Arthur joined them, along with an older man that Merlin did not recognize. Arthur was wearing an embroidered blue coat and silk waistcoat, the snowy ruffles on his shirt falling down his chest. His hair was powdered for the occasion, and the silver buckles on his shoes glinted in the candlelight. 

“That’s Uther Pendragon,” Gwen told Merlin, referring to the older man. “Morgana fears that he and Arthur will get into an argument tonight. Arthur’s sure to speak favorably regarding the raising and training of Massachusetts’s militia. But Uther will be furious if he does.” Gwen’s grip on his arm tightened. “Oh, Lance is looking over here. Do I look all right, Merlin?”

“You look lovely,” Merlin assured her.

“I wish I had a silk gown to wear.” Gwen’s voice was wistful. “But even more I wish that I could dance with Lance tonight. ‘Tis awful, Merlin, to have to watch him dancing with all the ladies, knowing that—that—” Gwen broke off and turned away, hurrying down the corridor. Lance’s eyes followed her.

Morgana and Leon moved on to greet other guests, as did Uther. Arthur clapped Lance on the shoulder and then hailed another young man who had just come in. “Gareth! No need to crane your neck, so. I fear your lady love has not arrived yet.” Gareth blushed and grabbed Arthur’s arm, jerking him aside. Lance was left by himself, staring morosely at the floor.

Merlin went over to him. “Gwen said she wished she could dance with you this evening,” he whispered.

Lance glanced at him and smiled sadly. “Tell her—but no, there is no point.”

“But there is,” Merlin protested. “You must know how she feels about you. You can’t just ignore her!”

“Tis what I should do,” Lance replied bitterly. “What more can I offer her besides a few stolen kisses?” He moved off to stand with Arthur. 

Merlin kept an eye out for Gwen as he went about his duties but did not see her. Many of the young ladies _were_ looking Lance’s way, but quite a few had their eyes on Arthur as well, smiling and whispering to each other. If Arthur noticed their attention, he did not show it. 

When the party finally settled down to dinner, Merlin heard the sound of Arthur’s voice, raised above the others. Curious, he couldn’t resist sidling over to the door of the dining room and peeking inside. 

Arthur was standing up, his glass in hand. “I propose a toast—to the brave men of Massachusetts who are preparing to defend our freedoms.”

Most of the guests raised their glasses as well, but several did not, including Uther. He was frowning and staring grimly at his son. Arthur met his eyes. For a moment, it seemed that Arthur was simply going to sit back down. But then he straightened his shoulders and said in a quiet voice, “You do not approve, father?”

“No.” Uther leaned forward. “Massachusetts is preparing for armed revolt. That is treason—not to mention suicidal.”

A murmur swept through the room. Arthur’s fingers tightened on his glass. “If it comes to a fight—I am not suggesting that it would be easy. But is it not better to fight for what you know to be right as opposed to sheltering like cowards under a tyrant’s hand?”

A few cries of support—Morgana was nodding her head, smiling at Arthur. 

Uther’s face darkened. “We would not stand a chance, Arthur. And God knows what punitive measures England will enforce on all of us when this ill-conceived rebellion fails.”

“How can you say that?” Arthur demanded. “If we must fight and die, then better to do so for our own interests, for the betterment of our people’s lives. England has involved us in war after war—and always for her own benefit, not ours! How many died to take Louisbourg, only to have England hand it back to the French without even consulting us? We have always responded to England’s calls for troops, only to be sneered at and ridiculed by the regulars.” Arthur swept the room with a piercing glance. “This time it is different. This time, we will be fighting by _choice_. I, for one, will not let down my fellows if it comes to war. I shall be there, ready to fight for the cause of liberty and justice.”

Most of the men in the room were on their feet, shouting their agreement, their willingness to fight alongside Arthur. Merlin felt his own heart stirring. He had never really believed strongly in anything before—in a cause that transcended his own mundane existence. In that moment, though, listening to Arthur, he felt caught up in the excitement. And he felt a touch of admiration for Arthur—who spoke his views so passionately, and was clearly ready to defend those beliefs, no matter how dangerous.

Arthur sat back down amid the clapping and loud exclamations of support. Uther remained silent, his face expressionless.

Music and dancing followed dinner. Several ladies surrounded Arthur in a swirl of silk and petticoats, professing their approbation for his patriotic words. Arthur smiled and led one of them off to dance. Merlin listened to the snatches of music as he carried dishes back to the kitchen, the door closing off the laughter and wild notes of the fiddle even as it kept the cold, dark night outside. 

On his second trip back from the kitchen, he saw a figure leaning against the wall in the shadows. Closer inspection revealed it to be Arthur. His eyes were closed, and he looked tired. Merlin hesitated, and then took a few steps towards him. Arthur’s eyes flew open at the sound of Merlin’s feet crunching through the snow. 

“Oh, ‘tis you.” Arthur closed his eyes again. “I don’t need anything, thank you.”

“I wasn’t going to ask,” Merlin muttered, and he thought he saw a smile flit across Arthur’s face.  
“I heard what you said,” he went on in a louder tone. “At dinner—about how there might be a war.”

“And?” Arthur kept his eyes shut. 

“Do you really think that’s the answer—to fight? Will it not make the situation irreparable?”

“Mayhap it will—independence may be the only option left to us.” He glanced at Merlin. “Not that you’d understand the complexities of the situation.”

“I could!” Merlin retorted. “If a war is coming, I want to know what I’m fighting for.” 

Arthur laughed. “You? Fight? Have you ever even held a musket?”

“I can learn.”

“And what side would you be fighting on, Merlin? Tell me that.” Arthur’s amusement had faded, and he was staring at Merlin intently, an indecipherable look in his eyes. 

Merlin swallowed. “Yours.”

“I suppose I should be grateful,” Arthur remarked drily. “Although you might have been able to do more damage if you joined the British. At least then your incompetence would hinder them and not us.” 

“I am _not_ incompetent,” Merlin retorted, but Arthur just laughed again and walked past him, going back inside.

*

“Do you think America should be independent, Gaius?” Merlin asked, turning his attention away from the potted strawberry plant in front of him. A cold wind was blowing up from the harbor outside, but Gaius’s shop was cheerfully lit by a warm fire.

“Yes—I do not approve of monarchies,” Gaius replied. “Now kindly confine your attention to the matter at hand, Merlin. We are trying to discover how your magic responds to other living matter.”

Merlin sighed and looked back at the plant, holding his fingers over it. He thought he might be able to feel something—a sort of tingling sensation—but that might have been merely his imagination. “Why do you dislike monarchies?”

“Men should not gain the right to rule over others simply because of the circumstances of their birth. Nor due to wealth or influence. Merit and the consent of the governed—that is the only basis for a just government.”

“You mean someone like—like me could become a ruler?” Merlin returned incredulously.

“Indeed.” Gaius paused. “With suitable training in political philosophy, of course. I am in the minority on such a view, however. Most of our statesmen believe only men of property are fit to govern.”

Merlin reached out and touched one of the leaves, rubbing it between his fingers. He could feel his magic eddying within him, and he pushed it towards the plant. “I told Arthur that I would fight for the colonies—if it came to a war.”

“That was brave of you, Merlin. May I ask why?”

Merlin shifted and frowned at the plant. “Well—I suppose because this feels like—like home a bit now. And I have friends here—you and Gwen.” He did not add that the memory of Arthur—so proud and defiant, declaring his readiness to fight—had stayed with him since the night of the party. The memory of Arthur casually dismissing Merlin’s ability to contribute anything worthwhile had stayed with him as well. Part of him did not care what Arthur thought of him, but another part longed to prove himself to Arthur, wanted Arthur to look at him with something beyond a mild scorn and amusement. 

“Hopefully it will not come to fighting,” Gaius said. “Although I fear events are moving rapidly in that direction. Now please concentrate, Merlin.”

Merlin tried, but images of Arthur kept intruding. Why did he have to be so damned aggravating? “Arthur said that you tutored him when he was a boy.”

Gaius sighed and laid down his pen. “Is there a point to this chatter, Merlin?”

“I just wondered what you thought of him,” Merlin said quickly. “I saw his father—Uther Pendragon—the other day. Arthur does not seem to take after him.”

“He has his mother’s fair hair and blue eyes. She died when Arthur was born, so he never knew her.” Gaius frowned. “Uther has been a strict father. He expects Arthur to succeed, and Arthur has always striven to please him. But Arthur can think for himself as well. It has been hard for him, to try and balance his father’s views with his own sense of what is right.”

Merlin thought back to Arthur leaning against the wall, looking exhausted, and felt a surge of sympathy for him. 

“None of this has anything to do with that plant in front of you, however,” Gaius went on. 

“I know—sorry.” Merlin sighed and concentrated again. “I can feel something. Maybe if I—” He pictured a small, delicate flower in his mind. To his delight, his magic responded. He felt it rushing out of him, pouring into the plant. Almost too quickly for the eye to follow, a bud appeared and then unfurled, revealing the white blossom. 

Gaius hurried forward to look at it. “Excellent, Merlin! What did you do?”

“I just thought of the flower in my mind,” Merlin replied, his wondering fingers touching the soft petals. It was beautiful. If only Arthur knew what he was capable of. The thought of telling Arthur about his magic made Merlin’s stomach twist with trepidation, though. Arthur might accept him—but what if he did not? Better not to tell him. Better to keep his magic hidden—for now, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morgana’s idea to form a Ladies’ Patriotic Guild is based on the Edenton Ladies’ Patriotic Guild of North Carolina. On October 25, 1774, about ten months after the Boston Tea Party, fifty-one women assembled and signed an agreement to boycott all British-made goods. Many conservative elements of society did not approve—one man in England wrote mockingly, “Is there a female Congress at Edenton too? I hope not, for we Englishmen are afraid of the Male Congress, but if the Ladies, who have ever, since the Amazonian Era, been esteemed the most formidable Enemies, if they, I say, should attack us, the most fatal consequence is to be dreaded.”
> 
> Boycotts were one of the ways that women (who basically had no political rights) could participate in politics. Some women wrote anonymous letters and poems in newspapers, supporting boycotts. Hannah Griffitts, a Pennsylvanian woman, wrote the following poem chastising men for not enforcing the boycott:
> 
> _Since the men, from a party or fear of a frown  
>  Are kept by a sugar-plum quietly down  
> Supinely asleep—and depriv’d of their sight  
> Are stripp’d of their freedom, and robb’d of their right;  
> If the sons, so degenerate! the blessings despise  
> Let the Daughters of Liberty nobly arise._
> 
>  
> 
> Louisbourg, the battle that Arthur referenced, occurred during King George’s War (1744-1748). Louisbourg was a French post in Canada. Colonists fighting in the British Army captured the fort, but lost almost a quarter of their entire force. In the peace treaty that ended the war, Britain returned the fort to the French without consulting the colonists—an act that made the colonists feel betrayed.


	3. Chapter 3

April sallied forth with a succession of unusually warm days. Staring out the window of the office, Arthur tried to ignore the restlessness building within him. He wanted to be out in the fields and woods hunting or running through drills with the militia. But his father had forbidden him from doing the latter, and he was supposed to be checking over the account books this afternoon. Arthur frowned down at the columns of numbers. He could do the work but found it stultifying. And soon he would find it even harder to escape it. Uther had made it clear that by the end of the year, he expected to make Arthur a full partner in the business. 

Arthur stood up, pushing away the ledger, and went over to the window, leaning his forehead against the glass. He did not want to be doing this for the rest of his life—confined to the office, holding meetings with merchants, debating the merits of import duties. He remembered when he was fifteen and tried to convince his father to let him join the British navy. The thought of sailing around the world, eventually rising to command his own ship, the hint of danger snapping in the wind that filled the sails—Arthur had not wanted anything else. But Uther refused, told him it was ridiculous. He had a profitable business, one that Arthur would inherit one day. There was no need for Arthur to go gallivanting about, chasing some boyish fantasy.

But now—he was not going to just sit by if something happened. Gage was lurking in Boston—at any moment he might receive orders to attack. Ships filled with reinforcements might already be on their way. If only his father would listen to him for once! But Arthur seemed doomed to follow a course that only engendered disapproval and disappointment in his father.

Slamming his fist against the wall, Arthur strode from the room. He would just go out for a few hours and come back later to finish the accounts. He couldn’t concentrate on them now, anyway.

He had scarcely been walking a minute before he encountered Sophia Morris. He had made the mistake of dancing with her at Morgana’s party, and now she seemed to be appearing everywhere he went.

“Mr. Pendragon!” she exclaimed. “How delightful to meet you.”

He bowed. “Miss Morris. How do I find you today?”

“Quite well, thank you. I was just out searching for some new ribbons—something bright and cheerful for spring.”

“Good luck in your search then,” Arthur said, bowing once more and beginning to walk away. Sophia followed him.

“Oh, I’ve already scoured the shops—hardly anything to be had. I trust you will convey my regards to Mrs. Galloway. I still think of that delightful party she held—particularly the dancing. It was quite diverting, don’t you agree?”

Arthur finally got rid of Sophia a few blocks later, shaking her off with an excuse about an urgent meeting. Thankfully, his father was not at home, and Arthur was able to saddle his horse and ride off without anyone questioning his activities. When he arrived at Fairhill, rifle in hand, he went to see if Leon cared to join him for some shooting, but Gwen informed him that both Leon and Morgana were away. So Arthur wandered out towards the woods by himself. Coming round the corner of the barn, he saw Merlin, crouched on his hands and knees and peering under a wagon.

“Merlin, what are you doing?” Arthur enquired. 

Merlin jumped at his voice, hitting his head against the wooden boards. “Ow,” he complained, rubbing his head as he emerged and straightened up. “I was trying to catch a beetle. For Gaius,” he added at Arthur’s uncomprehending stare. “He’s trying to make a thorough study of the _coleo_ — the _coleopteran_ in the area,” Merlin finished, stumbling over the unfamiliar word.

“Well, leave the beetle and come help me set up targets,” Arthur ordered. 

“Why? I’m not _your_ servant,” Merlin retorted. 

“No, but I’m sure you would rather watch me shoot than chop wood or plow the field.”

“That good, are you?” Merlin said sarcastically, but he grabbed his hat and followed Arthur.

“Actually, I am,” Arthur replied. “Best shot in the county. Ask Gwen if you don’t believe me.”

“You’re conceited, is what you are,” Merlin muttered under his breath. Arthur pretended he hadn’t heard as reprimanding Merlin for his impertinence seemed to accomplish nothing. 

They walked in silence for a while, clambering over fences and skirting fields. “Would you show me how to shoot?” Merlin asked suddenly. “If—if it would not be too much trouble.”

“I am sure that it would be a great deal of trouble, Merlin,” Arthur said lightly, intending it as a joke, but Merlin flushed, embarrassed.

“I am not useless, whatever you might think. And I want to learn. I’ve heard the rumors—everyone thinks that a fight is coming.”

“I know you’re not useless.” Arthur looked at him. “I’ll agree to teach you— _if_ you express sufficient admiration for my marksmanship.”

Merlin started to offer a biting retort, then saw Arthur’s smile. His frown turned to a sheepish grin. “Very well. I’ll do my best to shower you with praise.”

Merlin actually did look very impressed, though, when Arthur had finished firing a few rounds at the target. Four hit the center dead on—the fifth only half an inch away. 

“Well?” Arthur smirked at Merlin.

“All right, you really are as good as you said,” Merlin admitted. “ _Not_ that you need to hear that—you’re already vain enough as it is.”

“I am not vain,” Arthur returned, handing the rifle to Merlin. “Now take this and listen closely. And try not to shoot off your own foot.”

Merlin glared but listened carefully as Arthur explained the process. “Take a cartridge and tear off the end—no, the _other_ end, Merlin. Then pull the dogshead back and pour a bit of powder into the priming pan. Shut the frizzen and put the butt on the ground and pour the rest of the cartridge down the barrel. Now take the ramrod— _try_ not to poke your eye out, Merlin—and ram down the shot. All right, now bring it up to your shoulder.”

Merlin squinted down the barrel at the target. Arthur reached out and adjusted his position slightly. 

“Fire,” Arthur ordered, and Merlin pulled the trigger. He stumbled back from the recoil, and Arthur steadied him.

“Well, you missed the target by about ten yards—”

“It wasn’t _that_ far off!”

“—but otherwise it wasn’t bad for a first attempt,” Arthur finished. “Now try again.” 

Merlin’s second, third, and fourth shots failed to hit the target as well, but the fifth one did. 

“Ha!” Merlin exclaimed, grinning. “See, I told you I could do it.”

Arthur put his hand on Merlin’s shoulder and gave him a congratulatory shake. “I suppose I can revise my opinion of you from ‘useless’ to ‘slightly competent,’” he allowed. 

Merlin elbowed Arthur in the ribs. “Better than that. ‘Tis not my fault I had to spend the last ten years in London. Not much chance for hunting there. Otherwise I’d be as good as you.”

“Don’t delude yourself, Merlin.” Arthur realized that he still had his hand on Merlin’s shoulder. He jerked it away and cleared his throat. “Come on, I have to get back.” 

Merlin trailed after him as they returned to Fairhill. “How many shots can you fire in a minute?” he asked.

“Four when I’m at my best.”

“And what about the redcoats?”

“Three. Most soldiers use smoothbore muskets, of course—not as accurate as this rifle. But when there are a thousand firing at you at once—accuracy becomes rather less important.”

Merlin fell silent for a few minutes. “How many troops could the king send here?”

“A considerable number. Particularly if he acquires foreign mercenaries.” Arthur glanced back at Merlin. “There is the British navy to consider as well—we’ll be completely unable to challenge their maritime supremacy. Unless we gained the aid of one of England’s enemies, such as France.”

“Do you think that could happen?”

Arthur shrugged. “Perhaps. We would have to declare independence first, though. France would never commit if the chance existed that we might reconcile with England.”

Merlin was quiet again for a while. “Would Leon let me practice with one of his muskets, do you think?” he asked at last. 

“I will speak to him for you,” Arthur promised. 

*

They arrived back at the barn, and Merlin actually began saddling Arthur’s horse unasked. Merlin’s hair was disheveled from the wind, his jacket hanging open and the top few buttons of his shirt undone. Arthur shut his eyes and turned away, aware that his breathing had quickened.  
God, he could not stand this. His resolve was crumbling, worn away in the face of Merlin’s presence. What had possessed him to take Merlin along shooting? Now he could not rid himself of the image of Merlin smiling or the way he had felt—the slender cast of his shoulders, the rough wool of his jacket. 

His fingers closed around Merlin’s just as Merlin picked up the harness. Merlin turned around, gaze questioning. Arthur tugged the harness away from him, dropping it on the ground.

“Arthur, what—” Merlin stopped abruptly as Arthur laid his hand on Merlin’s chest. Arthur gave him a gentle push, and Merlin stumbled backwards, coming up against the wall. Arthur followed him and leaned forward, putting his hands to either side of Merlin’s body. 

“Arthur,” Merlin started again, his voice shaky.

Arthur stopped him this time by gripping Merlin’s jacket and tugging at it, pulling it down his arms. He slid his fingers into Merlin’s open shirt, and Merlin gasped, his breath catching in his throat. Arthur couldn’t look at him, kept his eyes focused on the worn fabric of Merlin’s shirt, his own trembling fingers touching Merlin’s skin. “Is this—” Arthur tried again. “I will not, if—”

“I—I want—” Merlin stuttered to a halt as Arthur jerked open another button, and he drew in a sharp breath. “Yes,” he whispered, and started trying to struggle out of the jacket that was pinning his arms to his sides. 

“No,” Arthur breathed. “Just—just stay still. Let me.” And Merlin stopped, stood there waiting, shivering. Arthur traced Merlin’s skin again, feeling Merlin’s pulse pounding. Then he slid his hand down Merlin’s chest and stomach and cupped Merlin’s cock through his breeches. 

Merlin moaned, and Arthur heard the thump as his head hit the wall. Arthur rubbed him through the cloth for a few seconds and then began fumbling with the buttons. Merlin shifted under him, making it more difficult, but finally Arthur managed to shove Merlin’s breeches down his thighs. Merlin’s cock was hard, straining upwards, and Arthur closed his hand around it. 

“Oh, that feels— _Arthur_ —dammit— _yes_ ,” Merlin gasped, pleaded as Arthur stroked him. Harder, then pausing a moment to gently finger Merlin’s balls, and Merlin bucked his hips up. Arthur was panting, breath tearing at his throat, his own cock aching to be released. 

Merlin didn’t last long—a rough stroke, Arthur’s thumb pressing hard, and Merlin came with a loud groan. He sagged back against the wall, shaking.

Arthur kept his head down, sweat sliding down his face as he undid his own breeches, took out his cock. A few strokes and he was coming too, biting his lip to keep back the noises that wanted to burst out. 

And then they were standing there, and Arthur risked a glance at Merlin’s face. Merlin was staring at him, looking stunned. He managed to pull one of his hands free and started to reach out to touch Arthur, but Arthur stepped back and looked away again. He did up his breeches, ran a hand through his hair. 

“Arthur,” Merlin whispered. 

Arthur took a step towards him, close enough to fist his hand in Merlin’s shirt. “You will not say a word to _anyone_ ,” he managed to choke out, and then fumbled blindly for the harness on the ground, went over to finish saddling his horse. Didn’t look at Merlin as he led the horse out of the barn.

“Arthur,” he heard Merlin say once more, but he couldn’t turn around. Could only climb into the saddle and urge his horse into a gallop. 

*

Merlin finally managed to pull himself back together after Arthur left. Then he staggered over to a stool and sank down on it, resting his head in his hands. Dear God, what had happened? Arthur had—Arthur had wanted to—with _him_. And it had felt glorious, fucking marvelous. 

Merlin’s previous sexual experiences did not amount to much—fumbling and kissing with a few girls, and once with a boy in the shadows of an alley, both of them nervous and embarrassed. Nothing—nothing like those past few minutes with Arthur.

_You will not say a word to anyone_. Merlin’s hands tightened in his hair. Did Arthur think he would—would blackmail him? Try to ruin him? As though anyone would ever take his word over Arthur’s. Merlin suddenly felt sick. Was that why Arthur had done it with him? Because Merlin was a servant—just a useful body that happened to be on hand? No—that could not be—they had been getting along earlier, in the woods, Arthur treating him more like a friend than a servant. 

“Merlin? Merlin!” Gwen’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. He jumped up, stumbling over the stool, still feeling shaky.

“Gwen? What is it? What’s the matter?” he called, hurrying out of the barn. 

Gwen rushed up to him, breathless. “Leon and Morgana just brought the news—there’s been a fight. Near Boston—some place called Concord. Hundreds are dead—British soldiers and militiamen both. It has started, Merlin—the war has started.”


	4. Chapter 4

The bucket clattered down into the depths of the well, and Merlin began hauling it up yet again, mopping at the sweat that dripped down his face. Gwen had caught him just as he had been about to escape to the cool, shadowed woods on the pretense of searching for one of the cows and asked him to bring her some water for the washing. Merlin had agreed, but he wished Gwen had picked a day when there was at least the hint of a breeze. It was June—not even full summer yet—but already the deep cold of winter was a distant memory.

Merlin turned at the sound of a horse galloping into the yard. It was Lance. He caught sight of Merlin and hurried over.

“Merlin! I need to speak to Gwen—would you fetch her for me?”

Merlin frowned. “What’s happened?”

“Congress finally voted to approve a Continental army. Washington is to be the commander.” Lance took a deep breath, glancing towards the manor. “I am volunteering, and I want to tell Gwen—to tell Gwen…” he trailed off.

Merlin felt a mixture of excitement and nervousness grip him at Lance’s words. Ever since the battles at Lexington and Concord in April, talk of fighting, of going to Boston to join the militias already gathered there had been on everyone’s tongues. “What about Arthur?” Merlin asked. “He’s going to go too, is he not?” 

Lance nodded. “He has already spoken to General Washington, I believe. Gareth plans to come as well. But, Merlin—if you could find Gwen?”

“Yes, sorry. Just wait here,” Merlin told Lance and trotted off to the kitchen. Gwen was stoking the fire, her skirts tied up, hair straggling in sweaty curls on her neck. 

“Have you got the water, Merlin?” she asked.

“Lance is here, Gwen. He wants to see you.” Merlin put his hand on her arm. “They’ve voted to form an army—Washington plans to take command at Boston—and Lance is going. Arthur and Gareth, too.”

“Oh!” Gwen hastily started letting down her skirts. “Oh, Merlin—I knew this would happen, but—” She paused and looked at him. “What about you?”

“Me?”

“Are you going to join?”

“I would have to ask Leon for permission.”

“And if he gives it?”

Merlin took a deep breath. “Yes—then I will go.” Actually, he would go whether Leon gave him permission or not. He was not about to let Arthur—he stopped that thought quickly. Thinking about Arthur did not help matters. 

Gwen suddenly threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly. Startled, Merlin hugged her back. “I will miss you,” she whispered. “I’ll miss all of you.” Pulling away, she smoothed her hair and then hurried out to find Lance. 

Merlin wandered out after her, but went the other direction, finding a shady corner to sit in. Whatever Lance had to say to Gwen, Merlin doubted Lance would want him there to hear it. Sitting there by himself, though, his thoughts helplessly, inevitably, returned to Arthur. 

The first time he saw Arthur again after—after whatever it was that had happened between them in the barn—Arthur had been walking into the manor just as Merlin was coming out. They had both frozen, staring at each other for a moment. Arthur had looked away first. “I was just coming to see Leon,” he had said in a strained voice. “To discuss the news about Boston.”

“Oh,” Merlin had replied. “Oh, of course.”

“Have—have you managed to practice your shooting again?” Arthur had asked, and he had looked back at Merlin, a slight smile on his face. 

Merlin had been so relieved that he had answered with a broad smile of his own and said, “A little, yes.”

“Good.” And then Arthur had given him a friendly, but impersonal clap on the back and walked inside. 

Since then, he had only encountered Arthur a few times. Arthur had been friendly—well, friendlier than he used to be; he still seemed to find it amusing to tease Merlin—but he had shown no sign of wanting to—well, of wanting to do any of the things Merlin had realized he desperately wanted to do to Arthur.

He couldn’t stop thinking about how Arthur’s fingers had felt against his skin. He wanted to find out what Arthur’s skin felt like, what Arthur’s mouth tasted like, what sounds Arthur made when Merlin had his hand around him. He wanted to pull Arthur close to him, feel Arthur’s warmth surrounding him. 

Merlin sometimes entertained the hope that perhaps Arthur was simply frightened—perhaps ashamed—but he was too afraid himself to try initiating anything. Too afraid that Arthur would rebuff him, would be angry. He could not lose the fragile friendship that existed between them—not now. 

*

Arthur stood before his father and tried his best to keep a steady, neutral expression on his face. He had known this moment was coming—known, but was still unprepared to face it.

“Is this true, Arthur?” his father demanded. “Have you agreed to join this rebel army those fools in Congress are setting up?”

“Yes,” Arthur replied, thankful that his voice remained steady. “I have secured an appointment as a lieutenant. I will be leaving with the General for Boston in a few days.” 

“You will not,” Uther said coldly. “You will stay here. I forbid you to go.”

“I am a grown man, father. You cannot tell me what I can and cannot do anymore. My choices are my own.” 

“They are poor ones,” Uther snapped. 

“I think not,” Arthur said firmly. 

“You are going to _war_ , Arthur! You will be facing men who are professional soldiers—who have trained their whole lives for this. And who will be at your back? A rabble of farmers and merchants who have never seen a battle before!”

“It was farmers who faced Gage in April!” Arthur returned. “Untrained farmers who made him scurry back to Boston with his tail between his legs!”

“The king will be sending thousands more. Even if Gage abandons Boston, England will not simply let us go. The militia may have won a battle but a long, drawn out war—months of fighting? Their resolve will crumble.”

“Which is why we need a professional army of our own. And I intend to help the General build that army.” Arthur felt a familiar tightness in his throat. “I am sorry you have so little faith in me, father.”

Uther started to speak again, but Arthur stopped him. “You will not change my mind. I had hoped to go with your blessing, but if that cannot be, I will still go.” 

Uther stared at him for a long moment, and then turned away. “Then go.”

*

Arthur made his way to the London Coffee House, to smother the frustration and hurt under talk and laughter. He found Leon there and joined him at the table. 

“Congratulations on your appointment, Arthur,” Leon said. “I have no doubt you’ll be a general before the year is out.” Leon hesitated, then said, “I can come, too, if you think—”

“No. No, stay here and help train the militia and try to convince the legislature to support the army. We’ll need supplies, more men who will have to be paid—and all of that will require taxes, which the states will hardly want to impose on their citizens. Most people are leery enough of the army itself—the first step to unbridled authority in the hands of Congress.” Arthur shrugged. “I cannot see that we have another choice, though. It sounds as though Ward and Putnam and the rest are squabbling amongst themselves—we need a clear chain of command if we are to accomplish anything.”

Leon nodded. “Well, I do have another recruit for you—Merlin. He came to me and asked for permission to go. I gave it, of course. He can return and finish out his contract when his taste for fighting wears off.”

“Merlin,” Arthur repeated. 

“Yes.” Leon laughed. “He’s hardly the best material for a soldier, but I fear most of your men will be as green as Merlin.”

Leon seemed to take it for granted that Arthur himself would not find facing battle a difficulty. Arthur wished that he could be as sanguine about it. And now Merlin would be there—Arthur had never really believed Merlin’s claims that he would fight if given the chance. But apparently Merlin had meant it. Arthur thought of Merlin fumbling with the rifle, and the memory of Merlin’s pulse, warm and steady under his fingers, followed before he could stop it. _Please let me be able to see him through this safely. All of them—Gareth, Lance, the others who come under my command_. He would _not_ fail.

*

Merlin did not have much to take with him. Gwen asked him to bring a letter to Lance, and he promised he would. 

“Be careful,” she whispered, giving him a kiss on the cheek. “Promise me you will be careful.”

“I promise,” Merlin told her. She waved to him as he left, clambering onto the fence so she could see him as he walked down the road, continuing to wave until he turned a corner that cut off his view of Fairhill. 

He stopped at Gaius’s shop when he reached Philadelphia. Gaius gave him a bundle of newspapers to take with him, and a copy of Voltaire’s _Philosophical Dictionary_. “I expect you to take good care of yourself, Merlin,” Gaius said. “Do not do anything foolish. Have you been working on the shield?”

Ever since Merlin had told Gaius that he intended to fight if it came to a war, Gaius had been encouraging him to try and use his magic to form a shield around him, something that might stop or at least deflect bullets. Unfortunately, Merlin had not had too much luck. “I’ve tried.” Merlin shrugged. “Perhaps when I’m actually in a battle…” He faltered, not wanting to think about that unless he had to. 

“Well, keep practicing if you can. I am proud of you, Merlin,” Gaius added, and he smiled and gave Merlin a hug before briskly shooing him out the door. “Now best hurry or they’ll leave without you.”

A crowd was gathered to see Washington off. Merlin hovered around the outskirts, feeling nervous and uncertain.

“There you are, Merlin,” a voice said, and he turned to find Arthur walking towards him, a musket slung over his shoulder. “Seems that you are to be assigned to my company.”

Merlin grimaced. “I’ll have to call you ‘sir’ again, won’t I?”

“Oh, yes,” Arthur replied, smirking. “Here.” He handed Merlin the musket. “This is for you.”

It was obviously brand new, and Merlin took it slowly. “Did you—”

“I’m not going to have you running about with whatever shoddy weaponry they’re likely to be handing out,” Arthur replied. “It would be a disaster waiting to happen. I’ve seen you shoot, remember?”

“I’ve gotten better,” Merlin protested indignantly. 

“I hope for all our sakes that’s true,” Arthur said and started to walk away. 

“Arthur!” Merlin called out, and Arthur paused and turned back. “Thank you,” Merlin said.

Arthur nodded. His gaze lingered on Merlin for a moment, and then he turned away again, disappearing into the crowd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Washington, who made a name for himself in the French and Indian War, attended the Congressional sessions wearing his uniform from that war—an unsubtle hint that he would like to be awarded command of the army.


	5. Chapter 5

Merlin slouched against the stack of wood, enjoying the luxury of a Sunday afternoon with nothing in particular to do except watch the comings and goings of the camp. The November air was brisk, but the sun was out, turning the patches of snow to mud. Will sprawled next to him, idly tossing a pair of dice. Will was from Haddonfield in New Jersey, but had been assigned to the same company as Merlin, and they had struck up a friendship. 

“My legs feel like they’re about to fall off—all that marching Arthur had us doing yesterday,” Will said. “And I think I’m going deaf from him shouting ‘prime and load’ and ‘present’ and ‘fire’ in my ear.”

“Oh, stop complaining.” Merlin nudged Will’s leg with his foot. “Your legs seem pretty solidly attached to me. Anyway, Arthur’s only doing his best to get us prepared for battle.” Merlin knew that however hard Arthur might be pushing the men under his command, he was pushing himself just as hard. Arthur had a stack of books in his tent— _A Treatise on Artillery, A Military Guide for Young Officers, Manoeuvres or Practical Observations of the Art of War_ —and he stayed up reading them long into the night. 

“Battle!” Will snorted. “As though we’re likely to encounter that anytime soon! Washington and Howe just sit here, staring at each other—we’ll sooner die of old age than a musket ball.”

Merlin shrugged. The Continentals and militias had enveloped Boston in a siege for months now. But after the bloodbath on Bunker’s Hill, both commanders were leery of testing the enemy’s strength. General Howe had replaced Gage in October, but he had made no move as yet. And so, after an initial flurry of reorganization, the Continental army had settled into a routine of drilling and work that was rapidly becoming boring to most of the men. Merlin could not say that he particularly cared for army life—he disliked the sometimes pointless drudgery, not to mention having little say in when and how he laid his life on the line. But he’d be damned if he would leave—not so long as Arthur was here. 

As a lieutenant, of course, Arthur could not fraternize with the men under his command. But Arthur found ways to show that he cared about them, that he felt a responsibility for their welfare. He always made sure that they were well provided for, that they had enough to eat. With all the roads into the countryside open, there was no shortage of food, but making sure it was fairly distributed was another matter. Arthur ordered punishments for infractions, but he also listened to the men and relayed their concerns to Captain Chase if he thought it appropriate. 

In those ways, Arthur treated Merlin just like the others. But sometimes, Merlin thought he detected something more—a hint that perhaps Arthur’s care for him went beyond the line of duty. The copy of _Robinson Crusoe_ that Arthur had given him because Arthur had “read it so many times I’ve committed it to memory.” The way Arthur slipped and called him “Merlin” instead of “Private Emrys,” even while on duty. How Arthur’s hand sometimes lingered for the briefest second after giving Merlin a friendly slap on the back. 

But then Arthur would bark out orders and stare at Merlin with an impersonal, detached gaze, and Merlin would be convinced that he must be imagining things. 

It alarmed Merlin how deeply he was coming to desire Arthur’s regard, Arthur’s affection. Because God knew, nothing would ever come of it. The slightest hint that things had moved beyond brotherly regard would get you drummed out of the army, and sodomy was a crime under the law. When he contemplated the things he wanted to do to Arthur—or have Arthur do to him—Merlin felt some of the same stirrings of shame that used to accompany his thoughts about his magic. Was this further proof of his—his abnormalities? But he seemed incapable of reining in his spiraling feelings, incapable of eradicating the desire that rose sharply within him whenever he saw Arthur. 

Will gave up on his dice and laid back, pulling his hat low over his eyes. “How do you think Arnold and Montgomery are getting on in Canada? They’ve probably captured Quebec by now.” Will sighed. “It must have been a brilliant action.”

“Doubtless you’ll have an equal opportunity for glory,” Merlin assured him. “What’s the name of that girl you want to impress? Martha? Mary?”

“Molly,” Will growled. He glared up at Merlin. “And who are you to talk? ‘Tis certain there’s some fine lady back in Philadelphia who has caught your eye.” He reached up and shoved Merlin’s shoulder. “Go on—don’t pretend there isn’t someone.”

“There’s no one,” Merlin said shortly and stood up. “I’m going to scrounge about, see if I can find something to add a little variety to dinner.” 

Will gave him a knowing look but settled back down, closing his eyes and pulling his hat back over his face. 

Merlin wandered about the camp, feeling lonely despite the press of people. If Will died, his Molly would grieve for him. Gareth, too, had someone—he was always swooning over his latest letter from Linesse. Lancelot had Gwen, of course. It seemed everyone in the company had some lover or relative, a person who wrote to them and cared about them. If he died—who would grieve for him? Would Arthur—

Merlin stopped that thought only to find that his aimless footsteps had brought him to Arthur’s tent. Cursing, Merlin turned to walk away, but at that moment, Arthur emerged. 

“Private Emrys,” Arthur said, catching sight of him. “Good, I’m glad you’re on hand. Come with me.”

Not _Merlin_ today, then. Merlin swallowed. “Yes, sir.” 

As they walked, Merlin noticed that the frustrated look Arthur had worn for the past few weeks had disappeared, replaced with one of suppressed excitement. “What is it?” Merlin asked. “Are there plans for an attack?”

“No, but we are going to get out of this forsaken camp for a few days,” Arthur replied. “The General is sending Colonel Knox out to Ticonderoga to try and retrieve any artillery that the British left behind. Our company is one of those selected to accompany him.” He flashed a grin at Merlin. “With some decent cannons, we might actually be able to _do_ something. Still fancy a round against Howe?”

“Of course, sir. I’ll go tell the others to get ready.”

Arthur waved him off, and then shouted after him. “Pack up my kit as well, Private. I have to see to organizing our supplies.” He ducked into Captain Chase’s tent. 

“Yes, _sir_ ,” Merlin muttered.

*

“I bet Arthur bloody _volunteered_ us for this,” Will gasped, straining against the rope. 

Merlin bent his head into the driving wind and struggled to take a step through the knee deep snow. 

“Careful!” Arthur shouted. “Watch the wheels there!”

When they had arrived at Fort Ticonderoga to find a full thirty-nine field pieces, two howitzers, and fourteen mortars abandoned by the British, Merlin had been ecstatic. A month later, after hauling the artillery hundreds of miles, including a treacherous crossing of the Hudson, Merlin wished he had never laid eyes on the damn things. Now they were stuck in the Berkshires, toiling up mountains through seemingly endless snowstorms. One of the howitzers had come loose from its carriage and tumbled into a snow bank, and they were trying to dig it out.

“Pull!” Arthur ordered, and Merlin yanked at the rope, felt the cannon move a few inches. 

“You three, get behind and push,” Arthur said, shoving three men to the back and joining them. “All right, now pull!” 

They pushed and tugged, and finally the howitzer settled back onto the road. Merlin collapsed against the side of the sled, panting. 

“Come on, Merlin, this is no time to be lollygagging about,” Arthur snapped. “We still have to get it back up on the sled.” 

They managed it at last, accompanied by much sweating and cursing. Arthur nodded to the driver, and the oxen set off once again, ponderously following the tracks of the other sleds. Merlin, Will, and the rest of their company trailed after. Merlin shivered as the wind whipped against them. His shirt had gotten damp with sweat, and now he felt even colder than he had earlier—if that were possible. 

They were starting up yet another hill when it happened. Something was going on farther ahead on the train, and the sleds had halted for a moment. Arthur was standing near the back of the sled in front of them, facing away from it, gazing back over the way they had come. Merlin, feeling exhausted and frozen, was staring at Arthur, dreamily thinking how wonderful it would feel to press up against Arthur’s warm body, slide his hands against Arthur’s skin. Arthur glanced at him, and Merlin jerked his gaze away, flushing. His eyes landed on the cannon, strapped to the sled, and he saw the rope break.

In an instant, the cannon was sliding backward, gaining speed. Heading straight for Arthur. Merlin didn’t—couldn’t—think. He felt his magic flaming inside him, slowing the cannon, holding it back even as he ran forward and grabbed Arthur, jerking him aside. They landed in a heap in the snow. Inches away from them, the cannon crashed to the ground.

Arthur struggled upright, stared at the cannon, then back at Merlin. Will and the others had rushed forward, the driver had leaped off the sled, and they were all talking, shouting. But Arthur kept his gaze on Merlin for a long, endless second. _Did he see? Did he see the magic?_ Merlin opened his mouth but found nothing, still caught in the terror of the moment. The horrible vision of Arthur lying crumpled in blood-stained snow. 

Arthur reached down and took Merlin’s hand, pulled him to his feet. “Merlin,” he whispered. He looked down at their hands, still clasped together. “Thank you.”

Merlin managed to nod, tightened his grip on Arthur’s hand.

“Sir? Sir, are you all right?” It was Gareth, white-faced.

Arthur dropped Merlin’s hand. “Yes.” He turned around, voice growing stronger. “Yes, thanks to Private Emrys. Which of you idiots tied that rope?” And Arthur waded off through the snow, haranguing the men, issuing orders to get the blasted cannon back on the sled—“And it damned well better stay put this time!”

Will came over to Merlin, looking shaken. “I never even noticed the rope was loose. Thank God you were able to pull him out of the way. Although how you got to him so quickly…”

“Luck.” Merlin took a deep breath. “That was all.” 

He spent the rest of the journey remembering the way Arthur’s hand had felt, clasped in his own. 

*

Arthur stared at the long rows of gleaming cannons. It had been hell getting them here but worth it. 

“Lieutenant Pendragon?” 

It was Captain Chase. Arthur saluted. 

“I’d like to see you in my tent for a moment, Lieutenant,” the Captain said, and Arthur followed him. The mood in the camp had improved considerably since their return, and Arthur was glad to see that the expressions of boredom and discontent that many men had worn had vanished. Particularly after the bad news that Montgomery and Arnold had failed to take Quebec. He stepped inside Chase’s tent after the Captain, and stood at attention, his head brushing the low ceiling. 

“At ease, Lieutenant,” Chase said, gesturing for Arthur to sit down. “I asked you here because I wanted to commend you for the steady, reliable effort you put forth on the way back from Ticonderoga. It was not an easy task, but we managed it. I know that the men under your command helped us through several tight spots.”

“Thank you, sir,” Arthur replied.

“I put in a good word for you with the Colonel.” Chase smiled. “As he is on amicable terms with the General, I would not be surprised if a captaincy did not find its way to you soon.”

“I would be most honored, sir.”

“We need men like you in command, Arthur. Men who set an appropriate example and prove that this army is not a rabble of country bumpkins interested only in drinking and whoring.” Chase nodded. “Tis going to be a long road, I’m afraid, and we will need courage and honor to reach the end of it.”

“Have you heard if the General plans to use the guns we brought back to any effect?”

“Perhaps. I believe he may be contemplating a seizure of Dorchester Heights. Why Howe hasn’t occupied them is a mystery. But we shall see. Now you had best be about your duties, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir. And thank you again.” Arthur stood up and saluted, then ducked back outside.

He came upon Lance as he was walking back to his tent. With his medical training, Lance had been swiftly snapped up by the nascent medical corps, and Arthur only saw him at odd intervals. 

“I was just looking for you,” Lance said, falling into step with Arthur. He handed him a letter. “Morgana sent this to you.”

“Along with one from Gwen for you, I presume?”

Lance shrugged and smiled. 

“You should not lead her on, Lance. ‘Tis pleasant enough to have someone to write to now, but when we return to Philadelphia…” Arthur trailed off.

“I know,” Lance took a deep breath. “Which is why I plan to propose to Gwen the next time I see her.”

Arthur came to an abrupt halt. “Propose? You mean to marry her?”

“Yes. I love her, Arthur. I could not be so happy with another.”

“But she—she is a Negro servant, Lance! I do not intend to besmirch her honor, but the laws prohibit such a union. You know that.”

“I care not for the social strictures that would frown upon us.” Lance shook his head. “You know that the Friends are working to abolish slavery in Pennsylvania even now. Perhaps this law might be repealed. And if not, we shall return to my parents’ home in New Orleans. ‘Tis true that it will be only a common-law marriage, but we will be together. I will have my work, and Gwen will help me.” He gave Arthur a hard look. “Do _you_ think she is unworthy of my affections?”

“No. Of course not. Gwen is a lovely girl, and I—I wish you happiness, Lance, you know that.”

“I know.” Lance smiled again. “I see the way you treat Merlin.”

“Merlin?” Arthur silently cursed the way his voice caught. He glanced around to see if anyone was near enough to hear them. 

“Yes.” Lance’s smile broadened. “Oh, come now, Arthur. I know you respect him and think of him as a friend, even if you cannot say it. And he was a servant—little more than a back-alley ragamuffin when he turned up at Leon’s.”

“Oh.” Arthur tried not to let the relief show in his voice. “Yes—yes, of course I think well of Merlin—better than when I first met him at any rate.”

“But I cannot think of marriage yet,” Lancelot continued. “First we have to pry Howe out of Boston.”

“Indeed.” Arthur cleared his throat. “Chase thinks I might be promoted to captain soon.”

“Excellent! Congratulations, Arthur.”

“It has not happened yet.”

“Oh, but it will. I have no doubt of that. You have done well, my friend.”

“Perhaps.” Arthur glanced at the letter he held. “My father does not see it that way.”

“You cannot live by your father’s wishes alone, Arthur,” Lance said quietly. 

Arthur took a deep breath. “Mayhap Morgana will write that he has had a change of heart.”

“I hope that is the case,” Lance replied. “Well, I will let you go and read it. Give my regards to Merlin and Gareth.”

Arthur nodded and waved Lance off. Once he had entered the privacy of his own tent, he ripped open the letter.

_Dear Arthur,_

_The latest reports say that Washington is_ still _waiting, doing nothing more than occasionally bombarding the British. Does he think they will simply hand the colonies over to us if he waits long enough?_

_Your comment in your last letter about the lack of good shoes and jackets for the soldiers has inspired myself and a few other ladies to begin a subscription. Of course, those who loudly profess their admiration for our cause often prove to be parsimonious when it comes to actually offering material support. I have also urged the young women of the town to set aside their frivolous needlepoint and begin sewing shirts and socks. Gwen and I should have quite a few pairs to send to you for distribution by the end of the month. Indeed, I find that I spend most of my time sitting about sewing these days. With the baby coming, Leon seems to think I am incapable of performing any strenuous occupations. You may be assured, however, that I have not let his opinions halt my efforts at gaining support for our army._

_Leon does not think that his father will reject British rule. Joseph Galloway continues to argue that we should seek peace with the king, and I would not put it past him to actively help the British if an opportunity arose. I feared my father-in-law might be a fool and now my suspicions are confirmed. He and Leon are hardly speaking anymore._

_In answer to your question, I do see Uther quite frequently. He often visits me here at Fairhill, despite the fact that we always end up getting in a dreadful argument. I wish I could say that he seems reconciled to your choice, Arthur, but you begged me for honesty. The truth is that Uther avoids speaking about you, and he has not mentioned receiving any of your letters. I am so sorry. You know I would change his opinion if I could, but we both know that he is stubborn._

_Take care of yourself—please try not to get killed if Washington ever_ does _decide to attack._

_With affection,_

_Morgana_

Arthur finished reading and crumpled the letter in his fist, sinking down onto his cot. Perhaps if he was promoted to captain, then his father—but no, why would that matter? Why would Arthur’s achievements matter to his father when they came in service to a cause that Uther had sneered at as foolish and misguided? 

*

 

“Merlin. Merlin, wake up.”

Merlin jolted awake. It was dark, although the light of a campfire shone through the walls of the tent. Someone was shaking his arm. Blinking away sleep, he managed to focus on Lance’s concerned face. “What is it?”

“Tis Arthur.”

“Is he hurt?” Merlin scrambled to throw aside the blankets, started fumbling about for his boots.

“No. But he is drunk. Down in one of the taverns. A friend just came and told me.”

“Arthur?” Merlin frowned. “He does not hold with visiting taverns. He’s certainly made that clear to all of us.”

“He had a letter from Morgana earlier today—I think he is upset at some action of his father’s. Merlin, if Chase should discover Arthur, he will be most displeased. He will rescind any recommendation for a promotion.” Lance handed Merlin his coat. “I know that you will not breathe a word to anyone. We must get down there and get him out before more people see him.”

“Right. Lead the way.” Merlin had heard about the possibility of Arthur’s promotion—the rumor mill in the camp was always quite accurate about such things. He had thought about going and offering Arthur his congratulations but had decided not to. Arthur would either thank him stiffly and dismiss him or an awkward silence would fall between them.

When they reached the tavern, they found Arthur laughing loudly with a group of local citizenry over some ribald joke. He was _very_ drunk. Merlin let Lance handle the task of extricating Arthur, but was ready with a shoulder when Lance finally hauled Arthur to his feet. 

“Merlin,” Arthur mumbled. “What—what—” He tried a few more times and then gave up, falling silent. 

It was a job getting Arthur back to his tent. Arthur kept wanting to sit down by the roadside and seemed to stumble into a pothole every few feet. Merlin and Lance staggered about with him so that it looked like all three of them were deep in their cups. Thankfully, it was late enough that few people were out, and Merlin knew where to slip past the sentries when they reentered the camp. They managed to get Arthur into his tent and collapsed on his bed. Arthur’s head thumped back on the blankets. 

“I’ll just take his boots off,” Merlin said. “And stay a bit to make sure he doesn’t go anywhere. Not that it looks like he will. You can go if you want.”

“Thank you, Merlin.” Lance watched Arthur for a few more moments, then shook his head and left quietly, shutting the tent flaps tightly behind him. 

Merlin yanked Arthur’s boots off and piled some blankets over him. “Guess I can call you the idiot for once,” he murmured, leaning over to loosen the buttons on Arthur’s collar. 

He froze as Arthur’s eyes suddenly snapped open. “Arthur?”

Arthur focused on him, and for a long minute they simply stared at each other. Slowly, Arthur moved a hand, fisting it in Merlin’s shirt. He tugged, and Merlin leaned down farther, resting his arms to either side of Arthur’s head. He could smell the ale on Arthur’s breath. And then everything else vanished in the sensation of Arthur’s mouth against his. 

Merlin couldn’t stop the moan that forced its way out of his throat, couldn’t help the fingers that twisted in Arthur’s hair. Arthur’s teeth scraped against his lip, and then Arthur’s tongue was in his mouth, and Merlin pressed closer, wanting more. He could feel Arthur’s hands jerking at his shirt, pulling it out of his breeches, and then Arthur’s warm hands were on his skin.

Arthur was uttering a litany of needy sounds. Merlin chanced a look, but Arthur’s eyes were tightly shut, so he closed his again, too, concentrating on the feel of Arthur—the soft skin of his neck, the rough scrape of stubble on his chin. 

His mistake was to try and roll on top of Arthur. He slung his leg over Arthur’s, and the cot overbalanced, tipping them to the ground in a tumbled heap.

“Sorry,” Merlin muttered, scrambling to try and get his arms around Arthur again, to pull him close. 

But Arthur pulled away. “No—No, Merlin. _Stop_.” He backed away, scrabbling with his hands. 

Merlin reached out hesitantly. “Arthur—”

“No!” Arthur’s eyes were wild, hair in disarray, his face flushed. “God—you saved my _life_ , Merlin! I am not going to make you—make you—”

“But I want—”

“Get _out_!” And Arthur turned his face away. “Please. Leave.”

Hurt and anger and sympathy choked Merlin, stole his breath. He opened his mouth to try and say something, but then closed it again. He stumbled to his feet, struggled with the ties at the door, and finally tumbled out into the dark, the cold night air sharp against his fevered skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The military manuals that Arthur reads were ones that Washington had in his collection.
> 
> Morgana’s attempts to raise money for clothes for the soldiers is based on the efforts of the Philadelphia Ladies Association, which asked every woman in Pennsylvania to make a contribution—whatever they could afford. The women in each county elected a “Treasuress” who collected the money. The funds were then assembled and sent to Martha Washington, who would deliver them to her husband. The Marquis de Lafayette sent a donation on behalf of his wife. A few years earlier, and the public activities of the women would have been condemned—the Revolution provided a platform for women to begin participating in the public/political sphere. 
> 
> I only turned up a few sources on homosexuality in this period (although I didn’t do a really thorough search). It was, of course, a crime—throughout Western Europe and in the colonies, male homosexuals were persecuted and imprisoned. In the Continental Army, sodomy was one of the serious crimes that would get you drummed out of camp, a ceremony “designed to produce shame and disgrace.” I did read one source that suggested that “the stereotype of the effeminate, exclusively homosexual male seems to have appeared for the first time in the eighteenth century, perhaps as part of a growing emphasis on separate roles for men and women.” As an aside, George Chauncey’s _Gay New York: Gender, Urban Culture, and the Makings of the Gay Male World, 1890-1940_ offers an excellent discussion of how “homosexual” or “gay” are by no means static categories and have changed over time. 
> 
> The French Colonial government in New Orleans allowed common-law marriages between black women and white men. The women were not legally wives, but were recognized as such to all intents and purposes. Many Quakers (Friends) in Pennsylvania had long disproved of slavery and had been trying to get it abolished. In 1778, abolition debates began in the Pennsylvanian General Assembly.


	6. Chapter 6

The sound of the cannons bombarding Boston shattered the cold night air. After three nights of listening to them, though, most of the men scarcely paid attention, only jerking a little at the loudest explosions. Merlin gripped his musket in one hand and a small hatchet in the other, holding his breath as they edged forward up the rocky ground that led up to Dorchester Heights. 

He glanced down at the city, shrouded in a blessed fog. Hopefully the British wouldn’t catch on to what they were doing until it was too late to retaliate. Straining to catch a glimpse of the ships floating in the harbor, Merlin didn’t notice that the company had halted. He ran straight into Will, dropping his musket with a clatter.

“Be _quiet_ , Merlin,” Arthur hissed. “Did you not understand my orders? This mission depends on _secrecy_ and _stealth_.” 

“Sorry,” Merlin muttered, retrieving his musket. 

Arthur gave him a shove. “Now get moving.” 

They reached the top of the Heights, a cold wind blowing from the sea. As the artillery bombardment continued, the men set to work—chopping logs and hauling them into position, constructing chandeliers of wood, stakes, and hay. The ground was too frozen to dig but hopefully wooden breastworks would pose a formidable obstacle—formidable enough that Howe would think twice before attacking. 

Despite the chilly March air, Merlin soon broke out in a sweat. They tried to be quiet, but noise was inevitable. 

“Keep it up, men,” Arthur urged, walking amongst them, lending a hand. “We get one chance at this!” 

Merlin gritted his teeth, bending down to wrestle a log into position. Did Arthur think they were going to build a damned fortress overnight? 

But when morning broke and the fog cleared, the defensive barriers were completed. Three thousand troops, along with a heavy line of the cannons hauled so laboriously from New York, stared down on the British. 

Merlin rested against a stack of logs, wiping dirt and sweat off his face. Arthur wandered over, looking tired but pleased. Once again, Arthur had not spoken about what had happened between them—about the night Merlin had hauled him out of the tavern. Sometimes Merlin felt as though he could feel all the unspoken words and suppressed emotions welling up between them. But Arthur would always smile, make some excuse, and walk away before they could be spoken. 

“You did well, Merlin,” Arthur told him with an approving nod, and Merlin couldn’t help standing a little straighter. “I doubt Howe will want to test the strength of our defenses.”

Howe did not—two days later, he sent a message to Washington. If Washington allowed Howe and the British army to leave Boston unmolested, Howe would not set fire to the city. Washington accepted his offer.

*

“I was beginning to think I’d never get to walk down these streets,” Will said jubilantly. The British had finally sailed off the day before, and the Continentals had flooded into Boston. Most of the citizens were in a celebratory mood and welcomed the soldiers. Will tipped his hat and smiled at a young lady who was walking by, and she blushed, smiling back.

“Best not let Molly catch you,” Merlin told him. 

“Molly will shortly be receiving a letter recounting our glorious victory,” Will retorted. 

“And I suppose you managed to make constructing barricades in the dead of night sound heroic?”

Will shrugged. “Well, I may have elaborated a little—but we were in danger! If the British had caught on, Howe would probably have attacked.”

“Maybe.” They had reached the harbor, the two brigantines and four schooners left behind by the British floating serenely in the water. Merlin picked up a pebble, tossing it in with a splash. “Anyway, Howe will be back—with more troops this time. I heard that we’ll be going to New York next to try and defend it.”

“Try?” Will scoffed. “What kind of talk is that? We will defend it.”

“Maybe,” Merlin said again, and then reached into his pocket, pulling out the pamphlet that Gaius had sent him. “Anyway, we have an equally important question before us—the question of independence.”

“Please, Merlin,” Will groaned. “I have read _Common Sense_ —and you’ve read it to me twice more. And I agree with it! Let’s go find ourselves some ale and more congenial company.”

“You go,” Merlin told him. “I have to get back to the camp anyway—Arthur wants me to help Lance move patients into the city this afternoon.”

“Because he caught you napping on guard duty last night.” Will shook his head. “Bad luck. I’ll drink an extra glass of ale for you.” 

Merlin waved him off and made his way back up the streets. When he reached the camp, he sought out Arthur’s tent. Arthur was inside, writing a report. He glanced up when he heard Merlin enter.

“Ah, Merlin, there you are. Aren’t you supposed to be helping Lance?”

“Yes,” Merlin replied, but he sat down on Arthur’s cot, stretching out his legs with a sigh. 

Arthur looked at him for a moment, and then turned his attention back to his report.

“Not going to order me off, then?” Merlin asked. 

“I’ll give you a moment to catch your breath,” Arthur replied. “ _Then_ I’ll order you off.”

“Right.” Merlin sat quietly for a moment, listening to the scratching of Arthur’s quill. Then he pulled the pamphlet out of his coat again. “Have you read this, Arthur? Paine’s _Common Sense_?”

Arthur didn’t look up from his report. “Yes. Although as the title suggests, ‘tis not anything surprising. We have to declare our independence—France will never provide us aid unless we do.”

“But ‘tis more than that,” Merlin protested, flipping to a page. “This is not just about the war and our grievances with Britain. This is about what happens _after_. Just listen— _Should an independency be brought about…we have every opportunity and every encouragement before us, to form the noblest, purest constitution on the face of the earth. We have it in our power to begin the world over again.”_

Merlin turned to another page. “And here— _The sun never shined on a cause of greater worth. 'Tis not the affair of a city, a country, a province, or a kingdom, but of a continent of at least one eighth part of the habitable globe. 'Tis not the concern of a day, a year, or an age; posterity are virtually involved in the contest, and will be more or less affected, even to the end of time, by the proceedings now.”_

He looked at Arthur. “We have a chance here—an opportunity. When—if—we declare our independence, we will be creating a new government, a new nation. And we can ensure that all the old injustice and poverty—all the hereditary privilege doesn’t _happen_ again.”

Arthur turned around to face Merlin. “Well, certainly we shall not allow another monarchy to form.”

“But we can go further than that!” Merlin leaned forward. “We’re all fighting this war, aren’t we? ‘Tis just like Paine says—wealth and power do not make one man better than another.”

“He does not suggest anything particularly radical,” Arthur pointed out. “A Congress, elected representatives.”

“Yes, but everyone will have a say in that government!”

“I hardly think that’s wise,” Arthur replied, turning back to his report. “The government belongs in the hands of men who have proved their worth—proved that they can be trusted with the responsibilities of running a country. We do not want mob rule.”

“A mob?” Merlin shook his head. “We’re talking about people—people who should be able to have a voice in how their lives are ordered.” 

“And what would that accomplish?” Arthur demanded. “It would be chaos—everyone clamoring to be heard, nothing getting done. Besides, you cannot give voting privileges to people who depend upon others for their support. They would not be free to make their own decisions—necessarily, they would follow the directions of those who provided them with income. Only men with property—with independence of mind and body—can be trusted with maintaining the virtue of a republican government.”

“Men with property?” Merlin flushed. “So you think that I should have no say in our new government, then? You think I do not have the wit to make decisions for myself?”

Arthur frowned. “Of course not. But—”

“But you think that because I do not own a fine house, a nice carriage, I am less than you. Don’t you?”

“Merlin, this is ridiculous. You were a servant, for God’s sake! That has nothing to do with your intellect, your bravery—but the fact remains that you have never experienced the responsibility, the outlook for the common welfare that comes with economic independence.”

Merlin stood up. “Do not speak to me about _responsibility_. You have no idea—you don’t know anything about me! Because you’ve never cared enough to ask! Because I’m beneath your notice—except when you want a passing kiss and fumble. And even then you won’t talk to me about it!”

Arthur paled. “Merlin—” he began, but Merlin pushed passed him. 

“I have to go help Lance. Those are my orders, aren’t they, Captain? And obviously you know better than I do what I should be doing with my time.” Merlin didn’t bother to disguise the bitterness in his voice. He ducked outside and strode away angrily.

*

A pale dawn was just beginning to lighten the sky as Arthur walked slowly along the lines of men. Most of them were dozing, stretched out on the ground. It had been four days since a force of British regulars and Hessians had landed near Gravesend, near the western edge of Long Island. There appeared to be only about nine thousand, but it was unclear what Howe intended. Arthur’s command had been ordered to join General Sullivan on the left flank, guarding the hills around Bedford Pass. 

It had been a nerve-racking few months, ever since Howe landed on Staten Island with an army rumored to approach thirty-two thousand at the end of June. The Continental Army was well entrenched around New York by that time, but it was clear to Arthur that they had no hope of actually holding the city. The British were able to move wherever they chose on the numerous waterways that surrounded them. No, the best that could be hoped for was to put up a good fight and cause as much damage as they could before retreating.

But Howe had waited, biding his time. Only now, at the end of August had he decided to act. It was impossible to know what his plan was, though. There were so many approaches to the city—Howe could attack Manhattan, King’s Point, or come up Long Island. Arthur still wasn’t sure why Sullivan had decided to move nearly half the army from the defenses on Brooklyn Heights that they had spent the summer laboring over to these hills that extended out for nearly six miles.

The King’s Highway wended its way past the hills to their left and behind them the Jamaica Road approached the city from the east. They had tried to quickly construct defenses in the few days that they had been here, but they could not cover the entire territory. Frowning, Arthur peered out over the forested hillsides, slowly coloring as the sun rose. He wished to God that Washington had not gotten rid of the only cavalry they possessed. They had no idea what might be going on out there in the countryside. 

Forcing down the feeling of unease, Arthur continued his walk along the fortifications. He came upon Merlin, curled up in his coat and fast asleep. Arthur paused, looking down at him for a moment, and then quickly walked on. The memory of their argument back in Boston still stung. Because Merlin had been _right_. Arthur had only considered his own feelings, his own conflicted sense of shame and want. He hadn’t thought about what Merlin might have been thinking and feeling. Hadn’t bothered to find out.

He had tried, since then. Tried to make it up to Merlin. After they had arrived in New York, and once the initial flurry of reorganization was over, Arthur had sought out Merlin one evening. Thankfully, Merlin had been alone, sitting next to a fire, huddling over an old newspaper. When he saw Arthur, his jaw had tightened, and he looked away. But he didn’t leave when Arthur sat down next to him. 

“Anything of interest?” Arthur had asked, nodding at the paper, trying to keep his voice light. 

Merlin shrugged. “More calls for independence. Some against it, too.”

Arthur picked up a stick and poked at the fire. “Have you heard from Gaius lately?”

“Not recently.”

“I heard from Morgana. She had her baby. A girl—named her Elaine.” Arthur couldn’t help smiling. “Poor Leon—if she grows up with her mother’s tongue, he’ll be in for a time of it.”

He had kept talking to Merlin, and Merlin had slowly thawed, started smiling back. Arthur made it a point from then on to try and speak to Merlin, ask him how he was doing. He managed to find out a bit about Merlin’s past as well. How Merlin’s father had died when Merlin was nine. How he and his mother had been forced to leave their farm because they couldn’t keep up with the taxes. How Merlin’s mother had become ill when they were trying to scrape together a living in London. Merlin’s voice had sunk into a low whisper then, haltingly describing how he had tried to find work to pay for medicine. But his mother hadn’t gotten better. Arthur had listened quietly, and said he was sorry. He felt awkward and useless—what good did it do Merlin to hear that? But Merlin had given him a small smile.

Merlin seemed to understand what Arthur was trying to do. And Arthur tried to make it clear that he would never push beyond friendship again. But it was hard—watching Merlin’s animated face in the firelight at night as he told a joke to Will; seeing him crouched under a tree in the rain with wet, dark hair; listening to him say “yes, Captain,” with that extra hint of teasing warmth. And Arthur thought— _if Merlin wants it, too, then why not?_ But, no. It would be irresponsible, cruel. Getting caught would be bad enough, but even if they didn’t—and if they made it through this alive—at some point it would have to end. Arthur would get married, take his place in his father’s business, settle down. No—it was better to have nothing else between them, better to never start something than to have to end it.

Taking a deep breath, Arthur tried to push Merlin to the back of his mind. He was just about to go see if he could find some breakfast, when the cannon fire broke out.

*

“It’s been going on for hours,” Will muttered, glaring into the midday sun. “But no sign of any redcoats. What are they doing? Getting rid of excess ordinance?”

“Maybe they’re just testing our resolve,” Merlin replied. They both flinched as a shell exploded to their right. “Seeing how strong our lines are.”

“Well they can bloody well stop anytime now.”

Another round of cannon fire thundered, and they ducked down. Raising his head, Merlin glanced about, making sure that Arthur was still standing off to his left. When the bombardment had started, Merlin had scrambled up, located Arthur, and immediately tried to summon his magic. He tried to form a kind of shield, but he couldn’t tell if it had worked, and it had been too hard to hold for very long. And someone might notice his eyes, even with his hat pulled down low. So he had released his magic, but he was ready to try again if the British did try a frontal assault.

“That’s strange,” Will said. “That last cannon shot almost sounded like it was _behind_ us. I wonder—”

And then there was a screeching yell, the sound of musket fire, and the British army came pouring out of the woods behind their lines.

It was chaos. Men scrambling around, trying to get into position. Merlin could hear Arthur shouting orders. He fumbled with his musket, trying to summon his magic at the same time. But he couldn’t concentrate. And suddenly bullets were flying around them, and Merlin gave up on his musket. Gave up on trying to take a shot. His magic rushed into him, and he cast out frantically, not quite sure what he was doing, only able to see Arthur’s blue coated figure standing there, right in the line of fire. He scrambled over the ground, trying to get closer. 

Without the magic filling him, Merlin would never have been able to see the bullets. But he could, could see them spinning through the air. One was heading straight for Arthur—straight for his chest. Merlin opened his mouth to cry out. And then the bullet just—disappeared. Not as though it had hit a shield and bounced off. More like it encountered a hot fire and melted away into nothing. 

It was working. His magic was working. Merlin fought to maintain it.

Their lines held for a few minutes. But there were too many British. Too many, and suddenly they were pouring through the defenses, musket fire turning into bayonets and clubs. The American line wavered and then broke.

“Dammit, hold your lines! Hold them!” Arthur shouted, even as he parried a thrust. 

But it was too late. They were running, the British firing into their backs as they fled. Merlin found himself caught up in the tide of men, borne along, and he struggled, broke free. A British soldier appeared in front of him. Merlin didn’t think, just raised his musket and fired, point blank into the man’s stomach. He collapsed on the ground, screaming.

“Merlin!” It was Arthur, grabbing him by the arm. “It’s too late. We have to get out of here. Run!” Arthur shoved him, turned to fire his rifle. 

Merlin hesitated, but then Arthur had him by the sleeve, and they were running, tripping over fallen men. 

Merlin could hardly breathe for the choking gun-smoke, musket fire popping loudly in his ears. They reached the forest, disappearing into the shadowed greenery. He stopped, gasping, trying to get his breath.

“We have to move, Merlin,” Arthur snapped. “They’ll be on us in a second.”

They came on other fleeing soldiers as they ran, and Arthur stopped their heedless flight, organizing them into a somewhat coherent company. 

“I want an advance guard out in front of us,” Arthur ordered. “And some men watching our rear.” 

It was awful, creeping through the trees, each snap of a branch a potential redcoat. They could still hear cannon fire and yelling in the distance. Only once did they spot any British, though. They caught a glimpse of red through the trees, and Arthur shouted out the command to fire. A smattering exchange of muskets, and then the British faded away again.

At last they broke out of the woods and saw Brooklyn Heights rising before them. Most of the men started running again, even though Arthur tried to stop them. More troops were straggling back in as well, and they continued throughout the afternoon. But everyone knew it had been a disgraceful defeat. Howe had moved his army behind their left flank, up the unguarded Jamaica Road. They had been caught completely by surprise.

*

By nightfall it was clear that over a thousand were dead, missing, or captured. Merlin finally found Will, unharmed, and Lance, too. 

“Have you seen Arthur?” Merlin asked Lance, and Lance shook his head. Arthur had gone off to report to the commander and to try and reassemble their company as soon as they had clambered onto the heights. 

The army was in disarray. A few wounded men were still coming in, pale and bloody. Merlin felt exhausted. He wanted to crawl into a blanket—or just curl up on the ground—and sleep. But he needed to find Arthur first. 

It took awhile, but he finally heard Arthur’s voice and caught a glimpse of him over by a cluster of wagons. When Merlin made it over, Arthur was gone, but a quick check revealed him sitting in the darkness behind one of the wagons. He was slumped against the wheel, head on his knees.

“Arthur,” Merlin said quietly.

Arthur jerked, glancing up at Merlin and quickly looking away again. He scrubbed at his face. “Merlin. I was just resting a minute. Impossible to catch a quiet moment out there.”

Merlin sat down next to him. “I think I could fall asleep anywhere at this point.”

Arthur didn’t reply. They sat in silence for a few minutes. Even though the bustle of the camp was right behind them, it seemed calmer, almost secluded here in the shadows. 

“Gareth’s dead,” Arthur finally said, his voice tight and choked. “I saw him get hit in that first charge. He just—just fell over.” 

Merlin felt a pang of sorrow, thinking of Gareth’s bright laugh, how proud he had looked in his uniform. “I think Martin and Henry are dead, too. Or captured. I found everyone else in our company, but not them.”

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut. “How could we have been so stupid? And I thought of it—thought about that damned road sitting there behind us, a handful of militiamen the only ones guarding it.”

“This wasn’t your fault, Arthur,” Merlin said sharply. 

Arthur slammed his fist on the ground. “But I could have said something. We could have sent out scouts. If we had only known…”

Merlin laid a tentative hand on his arm. “Even if you had said something, no one would have listened. All the commanders knew that road was there, too. “

Arthur rested his head on his knees again. “He was going to marry her. Gareth. He was going to marry Linesse. I’ll—I’ll have to write to her and tell her.”

Merlin couldn’t help it, couldn’t just sit there and listen to the misery in Arthur’s voice. Leaning over, he slid his arms around Arthur.

Arthur stiffened. “Merlin, don’t—”

“No one will see,” Merlin whispered. He carded a hand through Arthur’s hair. Most of it had come undone from the thong holding it behind Arthur’s neck, falling forward around his face. “Just this, Arthur. Just this.” He pressed a soft kiss to Arthur’s forehead.

He could feel Arthur fighting down the sobs. Merlin was shaking a little, too, shivers trembling through him. The face of the British soldier he had killed rose vividly in Merlin’s mind, and he pulled Arthur closer. Arthur let him, his muscles slowly relaxing. He put one of his hands on Merlin’s arm, warm through Merlin’s coat sleeve. Merlin sighed and tried to think only of how Arthur felt, let the steady rhythm of Arthur’s heart be the only thing he heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thomas Paine’s _Common Sense_ was published at the beginning of 1776. It was immensely popular and fueled support for independence. 
> 
> The viewpoint Arthur states—that only men who are economically independent and own property can sustain a virtuous republic—was a commonly held view of many political leaders, particularly James Madison and Thomas Jefferson. Madison believed that an essentially agrarian population, focused on farming, provided the best hope of maintaining a virtuous republic. Providing citizens with sufficient land was therefore a part of the philosophy. Madison was very skeptical that the republican experiment would actually work. _The Elusive Republic: Political Economy in Jeffersonian America_ by Drew R. McCoy provides a good discussion of this philosophy.


	7. Chapter 7

Arthur held up his arm, trying to block some of the sleet and snow blowing into his eyes. He could hardly hear anything over the howling of the wind and the rushing of the river, swirling past floating chunks of ice. It was a hellish night to be going into battle, but the last few months had been a long, dispiriting string of defeats and retreats. If they could score just one victory—just _one_! 

The army had barely managed to escape from New York before the British trapped them. But Fort Lee and Fort Washington had both been lost, along with thousands of tons of supplies. As the army retreated through New York, then New Jersey, and finally into Pennsylvania, the men began to suffer from hunger and exposure. There was hardly anything to eat, and many men had little more than tattered jackets to protect them against the onset of winter. Some no longer even had boots, limping along in bloody rags. 

They finally made it over the Delaware River at the beginning of December. For a moment, it appeared that Howe would follow them and that Philadelphia would fall. Congress quickly removed to Baltimore. But Howe stopped on the opposite shore, setting up winter camp in a string of villages along the river. 

Arthur had received a promotion to major after the battles in New York. He tried to use his new authority to do what he could for his men in the way of provisions, but there was too little to go around. He had spent the past weeks arguing with the Quartermaster and wishing they could take the offensive. Seize the initiative for once. Many others felt the same way, including General Washington. Three days before, Arthur had been summoned to a meeting with the other mid-level officers and given the news that they were going to attack Trenton.

A regiment of Hessians—around 1,500 if reports were correct—was posted at Trenton. Washington planned to cross the Delaware in secret and circle around to attack. If all went well, the Hessians would be taken completely by surprise. 

Shivering, Arthur peered into the darkness, trying to see the opposite shore. He glanced down at the men straining against the oars. Merlin was there—somehow he had managed to end up in this boat, even though none of the rest of his company was here. Arthur frowned; he’d have to speak to him about staying with his unit. But at the same time, Arthur felt a twinge of warmth, knowing that Merlin was close.

With a bump, the boat hit the opposite shore. They clambered out, stiff and soaked. And then they waited. More boats came slowly across. Ferries laboriously hauled the horses and ammunition. Merlin was shaking like a leaf, standing there in the sleet and mud, his thin jacket doing nothing to protect him. Arthur gritted his teeth and swore to himself that he would find a better coat for Merlin, even if he had to steal it. 

At last the men were reassembled, and they set out. Arthur ordered Merlin to go rejoin his company, which Merlin did, looking rather sullen. The march was a nightmarish repeat of their trek across New York with the cannons. Once again, snow weighed down their footsteps, and the artillery bogged down in the thick mud. The hours until dawn slipped away.

At last, three miles above Trenton, Washington divided his force. Arthur’s command joined General Greene, and they proceeded down the road leading directly into the village. Mercer and Sterling split off, approaching from the east and west. The sky was lightening now, already drawing near eight o’clock. Arthur could see the roofs of the houses ahead, smoke rising from chimneys. There was no indication that the Hessians had seen them.

Snow drifted down gently, carpeting the ground. For a moment, the men halted, waiting for the command to charge. It was breathlessly quiet—only the creaking of leather harnesses and the rattle of metal, quickly muffled. Arthur looked behind him and found that Merlin was inexplicably standing only a few paces off. What did the idiot think he was doing? Whenever Arthur caught a glimpse of Merlin during a battle, he was always fumbling hopelessly about with his musket, dropping cartridges, hardly ever getting an actual shot off. Arthur was about to tell him to move farther to the rear when Washington gave the order.

“Advance and charge.”

The guns opened up. Arthur’s heart was pounding, but his head was clear, rifle ready in his hand. Almost immediately shouting broke out in the village. As they drew closer, Arthur could hear bugles and wild yelling. 

“Der Feind! Heraus! Heraus!” 

Hessians spilled out of the houses, half-dressed, still loading their muskets. Arthur gave orders for his men to take cover behind the houses and barns as they approached. Crouching behind a corncrib, Arthur raised his rifle and sighted, fired, saw a man drop. 

The Hessians tried to rally, but to no avail. Already men were surrendering, dropping their weapons, holding up their hands. Not even an hour after the attack had begun, it was over. 

Arthur couldn’t stop the grin that spread over his face. Men were cheering, yelling. He turned, and suddenly found himself face to face with General Washington. 

“Sir,” Arthur managed, saluting.

But Washington grabbed his hand, shaking it. “This is a glorious day for our country,” he said—grave but with a triumphant light in his eyes.

“Yes, sir,” Arthur replied, smiling again. “It is indeed.”

*

Merlin leaned his musket against the wall of the barn, sticking his hands under his armpits to try and warm them up. But he felt elated, despite the cold. They had done it—won the battle! Six months after declaring independence, and people had feared it had been for nothing, the war a lost cause. But now—now people’s hearts and minds would be stirred once again for liberty. 

“Merlin!”

He turned to find Nathaniel, who had joined their company just a few weeks ago, running towards him. 

“Merlin, it’s Will,” Nathaniel gasped. “He’s been hit.” 

A tremble of cold that had nothing to do with the snow swept over Merlin. “Where is he?”

“We moved him into a house. This way.”

“Have you found Lance?” Merlin asked as they ran, and Nathaniel shook his head. “Then go on—ask Major Pendragon if you can’t find him. Hurry!” 

Nathaniel dashed off again, and Merlin clattered up the steps of the house. He burst in to find Will on the table in the kitchen. His jacket was open, darkened black with blood. Thomas was pressing the remains of Will’s tattered shirt to the wound, trying to stop the bleeding. 

“Merlin,” Thomas gasped. “Thank God you’re here. He’s been asking for you and—”

“Go help Nathaniel find Lance,” Merlin said. “I’ll stay.”

Thomas nodded, and Merlin put his hands on the bloodied cloth. Will had been shot in the chest. He coughed, gasping for breath, blood trickling from his mouth. “Merlin,” he whispered, trying to move his hand.

“Don’t. Just lie still.” Merlin clasped Will’s hand. “Lance is coming. He’ll be here in a minute. You’ll be fine.”

“Did we…”

“Yes. Yes, we won.” 

Will nodded, coughed again, face pale. Suddenly, Merlin could see his mother again as she lay dying. 

“No. No, Will. Come on, stay with me.” Merlin grabbed his magic, let it fill him. But he didn’t know what to do. No more than when it had been his mother. He tried pushing his magic at Will, but it dissipated, dissolving into the cold air. 

“Merlin,” Will’s voice was weak, thready. “I—” His hand went limp in Merlin’s.

Merlin’s vision wavered, filled with tears. “I’m sorry. So sorry, Will.” He let the magic go, feeling the same helpless sorrow and rage as when his mother had died. 

He heard the others return, but he couldn’t move. The magic had been there, ready, waiting to be used. But his ignorance made its power useless. He had learned so much about it, ever since Gaius had urged him to experiment, but many things still eluded him. He had failed. 

He felt someone’s hand on his arm, guiding him out of the house. It wasn’t until they were outside in the snow that Merlin’s head cleared enough to realize it was Arthur. 

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said. “I know he was a good friend of yours.”

“He still is,” Merlin replied softly.

*

The army moved into winter quarters at Morristown. Conditions were wretched. The crude log huts built by the men did little to keep out the cold. Supplies remained low. Adding to the problems, many of the soldiers were coming to the end of their enlistments, and the army’s strength diminished daily as men left to return to their farms and families. Desperate, Congress at last offered a bounty of twenty dollars to anyone who enlisted for the duration of the war, along with one hundred acres of land to be awarded when the war was over. 

“I heard you re-enlisted,” Arthur said to Merlin one freezing January morning. Arthur had managed to finagle warmer coats for Merlin and some of the others, but Merlin still looked thin and pale. 

Merlin held his hands closer to the smoky fire. “Yes. I’m not going to quit now.” He glanced at Arthur. “Are you surprised?”

“No,” Arthur replied. “I know how stubborn you are.” 

Merlin smiled a little. “Anyway, you’re staying,” he added, as though that settled the matter, although Arthur wasn’t quite sure how. 

“I am. But at the moment, I’m taking a short furlough to visit Morgana and Leon.” Arthur paused. “I thought mayhap you would like to come as well. See Gwen and Gaius again.”

Merlin’s face brightened. “Really?”

Arthur nodded. “The General is giving furloughs to anyone who asks—the less people here, the less mouths to feed.” 

“Of course I’ll come.” Merlin stepped closer to Arthur and brushed their fingers together, just for a moment, hidden by the long sleeves of their coats. 

Arthur drew in a deep breath and clasped his hands firmly behind his back. Merlin sighed, and held his hands out over the fire again. 

*

When they arrived at Fairhill, Gwen rushed out to meet them, throwing her arms around Merlin.

“Merlin, we were so worried about you! All of you. We’ve been hearing about the battles, never knowing if you’re safe or not. Is Lance—”

“He’s fine,” Merlin assured her. “He would have come but half the men are down with smallpox, and Lance is trying to do what he can for them. ‘Tis bad enough out there without being sick.” 

“You do look awfully thin,” Gwen said, frowning. “Come to the kitchen, and I’m sure cook will make you something.”

“Go on,” Arthur told him. “I’m going to speak with Leon and Morgana.”

A few minutes later, Merlin was sitting in front of a warm hearth, a plate of roasted sweetbreads set before him. “This is delicious,” he managed to say around a full mouth.

Gwen smiled. When the cook had moved away to the other side of the room, Gwen took a letter from her pocket. “Lance wrote to me at the end of the year. Just after your victory at Trenton.” She took a deep breath. “He asked me to marry him, Merlin. He said that just in case something happened—if—if he never got to see me again, he wanted me to know—” Tears spilled out of Gwen’s eyes.

“That’s wonderful.” Merlin took her hands in his. “And you will see him again. I know it.”

Gwen smiled again. “I’m so happy, Merlin,” she whispered. “I know it might mean that I would have to leave my home here—leave my father. But I would be with Lance. I was hoping that you would take my reply back, when you return. To be sure that Lance gets it.”

“Of course I will,” Merlin said. 

“Thank you.” Gwen sniffed, folding the letter carefully and tucking it back in her pocket. “Now finish eating that while I cut you some cheese.”

*

Elaine had Morgana’s black hair and blue eyes. She blinked sleepily up at Arthur from her cradle. 

“She’s lovely,” Arthur said. “And appears to have a sweet temper. Unlike her mother.”

Morgana batted him on the arm. “As long as I can preserve her from her uncle’s corrupting influence, I am sure she will turn out fine.”

Arthur gave her an innocent look.

“I know you, Arthur,” Morgana said, taking his arm and leading him back down to the parlor. “You’ll be showering her with presents as soon as she is old enough to appreciate them. Silk gowns, ribbons, dolls—you will completely spoil her.”

“She deserves to be spoiled.”

“Of course she does, but it will ruin her character,” Morgana replied, smiling. “Uther is bad enough already—says she will be the beauty of the county, brags about her to anyone who will listen.”

Arthur fell silent at the mention of his father’s name. Morgana glanced at him. 

“You should go see him, Arthur,” she said quietly. 

“He doesn’t want to see me.”

“He does. He just cannot admit it.” She sighed. “At least consider it.”

Arthur nodded slowly.

Leon joined them in the parlor. “Have you ever seen a more beautiful child than Elaine?” he asked Arthur, putting his arm around Morgana and smiling proudly.

“Indeed I have not,” Arthur replied. He raised his glass of wine. “To a long and happy life for her.” 

Leon’s smile faded, however, as they sat down. “I want to join you, Arthur,” he said. “I cannot do any more here. My father—God, he actually oversaw the construction of a pontoon bridge for Howe—urged Howe to take Philadelphia. He is a committed Loyalist. None of my arguments will sway him.” Leon shook his head. “And half the city agrees with him. Most of the Quakers, of course, have disapproved of the war from the beginning.”

“You would be welcome,” Arthur said. “We can always use good men. But Morgana—”

“I shall be perfectly fine,” Morgana interrupted. 

Leon gave her a smile. “I know you will. But if the British do attack Philadelphia, I want you to promise me that you will not stay out here all by yourself. Go stay with my father—or Mr. Pendragon,” he added quickly at Morgana’s outraged glare. 

“Very well,” Morgana replied after a moment. “I will stay with Uther. At least he has not thrown his wholehearted support behind the British.” She looked at Arthur. “You should go see him, Arthur,” she repeated.

Arthur sighed, shifting in his chair. His father had not replied to any of his letters, had sent him off with angry, scornful words. 

“Please, Arthur,” Morgana said softly. “I know he is worried about you.”

“Fine.” Arthur drained his glass and stood up. “I will go now so I still have time to return before it gets dark. If he even lets me inside the house.”

Before going to fetch his horse, Arthur went round to the kitchen. He found Merlin there, sitting with Gwen and eating a large piece of pie.

“I’m riding in to Philadelphia,” Arthur told him. “To see my father. You can come as well, if you like.” 

Merlin smiled. “I should—I can go visit Gaius.” 

When they arrived in town, the stable hand gaped up at Arthur for a moment before leaping forward. “Master Arthur! Thank God you are safe and well.”

“Tis good to see you, too, Peter,” Arthur replied. “Is my father home?”

“Yes, sir,” Peter replied. “And he shall be glad to see you, too, sir,” he added as he led off the horses. Arthur was left standing with Merlin in the yard, wishing that he was as certain of his father’s feelings. 

“I can come in with you, if you like,” Merlin said quietly.

“No.” Arthur took a deep breath. “No, you go and visit Gaius. Just don’t take too long. I doubt my father and I will have much to say to each other.”

Merlin nodded, putting his hand on Arthur’s shoulder for a moment. “See you back here, then,” he said and left, giving a last wave before he turned the corner.

Arthur found his father in his study, intent on a stack of papers. From Morgana’s letters, he knew that Uther had neither denied nor offered aid to the Continentals or the British, waiting to see who emerged the victor. It was typical of his father, who prided himself on being sensible and pragmatic. Only when he lost his temper did he forego his cold rationality. Unfortunately, those occasions when he did lose his temper often concerned Arthur.

Arthur hadn’t spoken or moved, but Uther happened to glance up and saw his son standing in the doorway. He froze, pen motionless in his hand. Arthur stepped forward and then stopped, hesitating. 

“Arthur,” his father said at last, standing up. Arthur braced himself for the coming diatribe. 

But Uther did not speak, simply strode forward and put his arms around Arthur. “You’re alive,” Uther said in a hoarse voice. “God, I did not know—all the battles, conflicting reports over casualties. I feared—feared that you might be among them.”

Arthur had stiffened in shock, but then he relaxed, tentatively put one arm around his father. “I’m fine.”

Uther drew back but kept his hands on Arthur’s shoulders. “You look well. A little thinner perhaps.” He smiled. “And older.”

“I’m a major now.” 

“I know. Morgana told me.” Uther straightened Arthur’s jacket. “I’m proud of you.”

“You never answered my letters.”

Uther sighed. “I was angry with you.” He walked back to his desk, pouring two glasses of wine. “But I must admit that your army has shown remarkable initiative—and had its fair share of luck. Still, Howe is simply biding his time until spring. How long can Washington outwit and outrun him?”

“I am not leaving,” Arthur said. 

“You have had your chance at adventure and danger, Arthur. And served honorably. No one would blame you if—”

“No.” Arthur cut him off. “I will not abandon my men.” _I will not abandon Merlin_. 

Uther studied him for a long moment and then nodded. “You are a good man, Arthur.” He smiled again. “And I am truly glad—truly glad to see you safe and well.”

*

Gaius’s shop looked exactly as it had the last time Merlin had seen it—cluttered with books and papers, Gaius’s experiments balanced precariously on the counter. Merlin settled down on a stool. They talked about the war, the rumors that France was sending illicit shipments of arms, the chances for peace. 

“And your magic, Merlin?” Gaius asked him. “Have you been able to employ it to any use?”

“Yes. I can make a—a sort of shield that stops bullets. I cannot project it very far or hold it for very long, but it does work.” He left out the fact that he always cast his magic on Arthur.

“Excellent.” Gaius scribbled down a few notes.

“But—” Merlin hesitated and then rushed on. “I cannot use it to heal people. I tried with—with a friend, and it didn’t work.” He looked hopefully at Gaius. “Do you know why?”

Gaius considered but finally shook his head. “Medicine is a complicated subject as it is. The old humoral theories are being dismissed but much study remains to be done before the human body becomes comprehensible. The only analogous situation I can think of is when you caused the plant to blossom.”

“But I don’t know how I did that.” Merlin sighed, and then glanced out the window. “I had best be going. It was good to see you again, Gaius.”

“You, too, my boy. Take care of yourself. You’ve made it this far, and I expect to toast the British defeat with you in the coming months.”

After saying farewell, Merlin hurried back through the streets. The afternoon light was waning, the shadows stretching long across the cobblestones. When he reached Arthur’s house he knocked on the door. A maid opened it, smiling at him questioningly.

“I’m here with Arthur,” Merlin told her. “Has he left yet?”

“Oh, no,” she replied, letting him into the hall. “He and his father have been shut up in the study for a good hour.”

Either they were engaged in a monumental argument or Uther had reconciled with his son. Merlin hoped it was the latter—he hated seeing the hurt in Arthur’s eyes whenever his father’s name was mentioned.

Merlin loitered about in the hall and finally heard the study door open. A minute later, Arthur came clattering down the stairs. 

“Merlin!” he said, catching sight of him. “A change of plans—I’m going to spend the night here.” Arthur grinned. “Father wants me to stay to supper. You’re welcome to stay, too, of course—unless you’d rather return to Fairhill.”

“No, I’ll stay,” Merlin said, returning Arthur’s smile. “I take it your father was happy to see you?”

Arthur nodded. “He still wishes I would leave the army. Of course I told him plainly I intend to see this through to the end. I think he at least accepts that now.”

“I’m glad.” Merlin started to move away. “Well, I’ll just go see what’s on the fire in the kitchen. I think I could eat for a week and still be hungry.”

“Merlin, wait,” Arthur said, and Merlin paused, looking back questioningly. 

“I should like it if you would eat with my father and me.” Arthur fiddled with one of the buttons on his sleeve. “There is no need for you to go to the kitchen.”

“You—you want me to join you at the table?” Merlin asked slowly, not quite sure he had heard Arthur correctly. 

“ _Yes_ , Merlin. Have you suddenly gone deaf?”

“No,” Merlin retorted, and then added slowly, “I should like that.” Actually, he was not at all eager to meet Uther who had seemed quite intimidating the few times Merlin had seen him in the past, but the fact that Arthur wanted him there—that Arthur was treating him like an _equal_ —overrode all else.

When Arthur introduced Merlin to his father, Uther gave Merlin a considering stare. Merlin tried not to fidget. “Were you not working as a servant at Fairhill?” Uther finally said. 

“Yes, sir. But I joined the Continentals.”

“Merlin is the soldier I told you about, father,” Arthur put in. “The one who saved my life when we were returning with Knox and the artillery.” 

Uther still looked slightly doubtful over whether he wanted Merlin inside his dining room, but he finally inclined his head. “I am pleased to meet you and offer my thanks in person.”

Dinner was an awkward affair, at least for Merlin. The delicate china and fine cutlery made him nervous, certain he was going to break something. There was course after course—braised oxtail, roasted oysters, pumpkin gratin. Merlin didn’t say much, only answering direct questions. Arthur and his father discussed a variety of subjects—the war’s effect on Uther’s business, the strong Loyalist sentiment in Philadelphia. An argument almost broke out now and then, but after a pause, Uther would change the subject, clearly intent on remaining on good terms with Arthur.

Uther urged his son—and Merlin, as an afterthought—to join him for some brandy after supper, but Arthur said that he wanted to retire. “We rode far today. Besides, the beds at Morristown are nothing to boast of—I’m looking forward to a night in a real bed.”

“Of course.” Uther paused at the doorway. “I shall see you on the morrow, before you go?” 

“Yes. Good night, father.” 

Uther left, leaving Arthur and Merlin sitting at the table. An awkward silence fell.

“I’ll show you to your room,” Arthur said abruptly, standing up. 

Merlin followed him up the stairs and down the hallway. Arthur opened a door, revealing a guest bedroom. “You should be comfortable here.” 

Merlin started to step inside, but stopped when Arthur remained standing in the doorway. 

“My room,” Arthur paused. “My room is just across the hall.”

Merlin swallowed against a suddenly dry throat. During the past few months, he had often given in to the desire to touch Arthur—putting his hand discreetly on Arthur’s, sometimes leaning in to kiss the side of Arthur’s face when they were in the darkness, away from the firelight. Arthur had allowed it, but never reciprocated. But now—

“I thought perhaps—” Arthur took a deep breath, staring fixedly at the opposite wall, avoiding Merlin’s eyes. “That perhaps you might rather stay there instead of here.” 

Merlin laid his hand on Arthur’s chest, twisting his fingers in the collar of Arthur’s shirt. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I should like that.”

Arthur leaned forward, and then his mouth was on Merlin’s for one hot, yearning second. Arthur pulled away, though, tugging Merlin across the hall, opening another door and shutting it firmly behind them. 

The room was dark but for the glowing coals in the fireplace. Merlin leaned against the wall, heart racing. Arthur was still in front of the door, hands resting on it, head bowed. 

“Arthur,” Merlin whispered, wishing his voice wasn’t shaking from nerves. 

Arthur stepped over to him and slowly ran his hand down Merlin’s arm. “I—I cannot _stand_ it anymore,” he said softly. 

“You don’t have to,” Merlin replied. He reached out and tilted Arthur’s face up. “I want this. I want _you_. God, Arthur, I’ve been thinking about this for _months_.” He pulled Arthur into another kiss. “Wanting to kiss you.” He started unbuttoning Arthur’s waistcoat. “Wanting to feel you against me.”

“But if someone—if someone found out,” Arthur began, but Merlin kissed him again.

“Tis just us, Arthur. Just us. No one else will know.” Merlin untied Arthur’s hair so that it spilled around his face. He gently ran his fingers through it. “ _Please_.”

Arthur’s fingers were trembling when he started removing Merlin’s jacket and shirt. That first time—Arthur had been so rushed, controlling, taking what he wanted. Merlin could only think—hope—that now Arthur no longer saw him as just a servant, as someone whose feelings mattered little. 

Merlin shivered as the air struck his bare skin. He ran his fingers down Arthur’s chest, exploring, touching. Arthur shut his eyes, his hands against the wall on either side of Merlin. 

Merlin started unbuttoning Arthur’s breeches. He pulled them down, revealing Arthur’s hard cock. The breeches were around Arthur’s knees when Merlin realized Arthur still had his boots on. “Um, Arthur—your boots. Maybe you could—”

Arthur’s eyes flashed open. He groaned, pulled away, tried to reach down and practically fell over. Merlin couldn’t help a laugh, and Arthur laughed, too, breathless. He tried again, and then gave up, sinking down on the bed.

Merlin hastily tugged off his own boots. He undid his breeches, pushing them down. And then stood there, feeling embarrassed and skinny and cold. 

“Get over here,” Arthur said in a rather hoarse voice. Merlin walked over, started to sit down, but Arthur stopped him with his hands on Merlin’s hips. Merlin’s prick was straining upwards, the head already wet. Arthur maneuvered him so that he was standing in between Arthur’s legs, and then Arthur put his hand around Merlin’s cock. Merlin gasped, jerking forward to grip Arthur’s shoulders.

Arthur stroked slowly, his other hand holding Merlin’s hip so tightly, Merlin was sure there would be a bruise. He didn’t care, though. It felt too good, looking down to see Arthur’s hand on his cock, the intent expression on Arthur’s face. 

And then Arthur bent down and licked the tip. Merlin moaned, squeezing his eyes shut. Arthur did it again, and then sucked the head into his mouth for a second. He pulled off and looked up at Merlin.

A needy growl climbed out of Merlin’s throat, and he pushed Arthur down onto the bed, clambering onto him. For a moment it was all knees and elbows, and then they were settled, Merlin lying on Arthur, Arthur’s cock poking him in the stomach. Merlin tried kissing Arthur again, this time opening his mouth. It took them a few tries to get the angle right so their noses weren’t squashed together, but then Arthur’s tongue was on his. One of Arthur’s hands slid down his back, dipping lower and rubbing Merlin’s arse.

Arthur broke off their kiss. “Have you—have you ever fucked someone?”

Merlin blushed. “Um, no.” 

“Would you—” Arthur paused, voice wavering. “That is, would you like to—with me?”

“You want me to—” Merlin’s cock grew harder than he had thought possible.

Arthur looked away, flushing again. “If—if you want.”

Merlin kissed him. “I’ve never—I mean, I’ve never, either way. I don’t know—”

“I haven’t—with a man,” Arthur admitted, sounding vulnerable and uncertain. “But I want to,” he finished in a low voice. “With you.”

Merlin gritted his teeth, reaching down and squeezing himself so he didn’t come just at the thought of fucking Arthur. Things went a bit blurry, but somehow he managed to get himself between Arthur’s spread legs, cock pressed against Arthur’s hole. When he tried pushing inside, though, Arthur grimaced in pain. 

“It hurts.” Merlin pulled out. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to hurt you.” He started to draw away.

“No.” Arthur grabbed him. “I just need—maybe try your fingers first.”

Merlin swallowed hard and trailed his hand up Arthur’s thigh. He managed to slide one finger in and although Arthur made a noise, it didn’t sound as though he was in pain. 

“Get them wet first. With your mouth.” Arthur’s voice was gruff, and his hands gripped the blankets. 

He did as Arthur suggested, getting his fingers slick with spit. The one went in much easier and after a moment he tried adding another. When he started moving them up and down, Arthur’s hips jerked upwards. 

“Oh, dammit, Merlin,” Arthur gasped. “That—keep doing that.” 

Merlin obeyed, watching the twist of Arthur’s mouth, the flex of muscles in his arms, the way Arthur’s cock twitched when Merlin tried curving his fingers slightly. 

“Do you think—are you ready?” he asked at last, and Arthur nodded.

But then he caught Merlin’s arm. “In my bag. There’s some salve—Lance gave it to me when I had a chest cold. I—I think it would help.” Arthur flushed. 

Merlin fetched it and slicked his cock before pushing inside. It was still tight, but he slowly worked himself into Arthur, shallow thrusts, carefully watching Arthur’s face. Arthur was breathing hard, and Merlin fumbled about for Arthur’s hand, giving Arthur something to hold onto. He clutched Merlin’s fingers tightly. 

Merlin stopped when he was seated in Arthur, then drew back a little and thrust in again. Arthur moaned, and his other hand came up to tangle in Merlin’s hair. “Again. Harder, Merlin.”

Merlin thrust into Arthur, finally closing his eyes, trying not to cry out at the feel of Arthur around him. He couldn’t last long, though. It was too good, too intense. When he came, Arthur pulled him into a hard kiss, and Merlin whimpered into his mouth.

He drew out to find that Arthur’s erection had flagged a little, and Merlin gently stroked him. Feeling slightly embarrassed, but wanting it too much to care, Merlin nudged Arthur’s legs apart so that he could look at Arthur’s hole. Come was dribbling out of it, and Merlin drew his fingers through it, then up to squeeze Arthur’s balls. Arthur grunted and his cock pulsed in Merlin’s hand, seed spilling onto his stomach. 

Merlin crawled back up the bed until he was level with Arthur. “All right?” he asked, running his fingers across Arthur’s mouth. 

“Yes,” Arthur replied, licking Merlin’s fingers and flushing a little again. Merlin slid an arm around Arthur, wanting Arthur close to him. Arthur hesitated a moment, and then turned so that he was pressed against Merlin, head on Merlin’s shoulder. 

“Do you think this is wrong?” Arthur asked quietly awhile later. 

“No,” Merlin replied, kissing the top of Arthur’s ear. “No, it isn’t wrong.” He almost told Arthur about his magic, then—almost. But this might be the only night he got to sleep with Arthur in his arms. He didn’t want to risk ruining it. 

*

Arthur woke up the next morning to find his legs tangled with Merlin’s, one of Merlin’s arms stretched across his chest. 

Merlin was still asleep, and Arthur softly brushed his hair back so that he could see Merlin’s face. He wished that it could be like this—always. Waking up to find Merlin next to him. Feeling Merlin’s sweet kisses on his skin. But it could not.

Sighing, Arthur disentangled himself from Merlin and collected his clothes off the floor. He was just trying to smooth the wrinkles out of his coat when Merlin woke, sitting up and yawning. Arthur saw the hurt flash across his face when he realized Arthur was already dressed.

“I— _we_ have to get up,” Arthur told him. “Or else my father will come knocking on the door, wondering if I’m ill.”

Merlin didn’t answer, just stared down at the blankets. 

Arthur went over to him, tilted his face up to give him a kiss. “You know I would stay—if I could. You know that.”

And Merlin managed a smile and a nod.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Washington’s encounter with Arthur after the Battle of Trenton actually occurred (well, not with Arthur, obviously, but Washington said that to a young officer). I drew all the accounts of battles from _Almost a Miracle: The American Victory in the War of Independence_ by John Ferling.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: A little music to set the mood, courtesy of YouTube (just ignore the Civil War pictures, it’s originally a Revolutionary War song). [Here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E58FMlJ1KrE&playnext_from=TL&videos=DqT0Dsm1bpU)

Brandywine, Monmouth, Camden—the battles and the war dragged on. Always, the Continentals barely managed to keep ahead of the British, winning occasional but rare victories yet time and again escaping total defeat. For Merlin, it often blurred together—the hunger and cold of winter giving way to another hot summer, the tedious weeks punctuated by the momentary terror of battle. 

“If we can just hold on a little longer,” Arthur said, as the year turned and 1780 became1781. It had been a bad year—Arnold’s betrayal, mutiny flaring up in the army, the bloody fighting in South Carolina, inflation and bankruptcy rampant among the fledgling state economies. 

The British had taken the war to the South—to the valuable rice and cotton plantations. Merlin’s company—and Arthur, now a colonel—had been sent south to North Carolina, joining General Greene and the fight against Cornwallis that had been raging over the past year. Merlin managed to stay close to Arthur during the battles, casting out his magic, ensuring that Arthur remained unscathed. He never told Arthur, though. Each day that he did not made it that much harder to consider broaching the subject. 

Merlin spent many lonely nights, many hours wanting, yearning to go to Arthur, knowing that Arthur was thinking the same thing. They managed the occasional stolen kiss and, more rarely, a night together—in a barn, an inn, Arthur’s tent—always having to be quiet, careful. But it was something at least, and Merlin tried not to think about what would happen after. When the war had ended, for good or ill, and they both returned to their lives. 

_If_ they returned. But it had been so long, and they had weathered so many battles together. Merlin didn’t think—didn’t believe that anything would happen. 

It was a windy, cool March day when the army assembled at Guilford Courthouse. Cornwallis was still seething from his defeat at Cowpens, and Greene was confident that he would attack. With the reinforcements that had been arriving, Greene now had enough men to match and even overwhelm Cornwallis. Greene chose the field of battle and waited for Cornwallis to come to him. The Continentals were formed into three lines—militia in front to fire the first two volleys and then retreat, two lines of Continentals behind them to then engage the British. 

Merlin had secured a place near Arthur. He had gotten better at firing his musket while still maintaining his magic, although Arthur often teased him about being horribly inept. 

“I’m embarrassed to admit that I was the one who taught you to shoot,” Arthur would say, laughing. And if they were alone, he would put his arm around Merlin’s shoulders, and lean in for a quick kiss to take the sting out of his words. 

Arthur noticed him as he glanced over the ranks of men—he had finally given up on trying to get Merlin to remain with his company during a fight. A brief flash of an encouraging smile, and then Arthur faced forward again.

They waited, time dragging out, watching for the tell-tale flash of red. And then there it was, through the barren trees. The lines of British moving slowly towards them. 

The British stepped into the open and started across the fields. Still, the militia held, waiting. At last the command was given, and they opened fire. Gaping holes appeared among the red-coated figures. The clouds of powder smoke obscured the field for a moment, but then it cleared, and the British were advancing again. Another round of fire from the militia. 

The British staggered, paused. The militia retreated, following their orders. Merlin’s fingers tightened on his musket. The British came on. Merlin summoned his magic, waited until the regulars were almost within range, and then cast his shield over Arthur. Arthur shouted the command, and the line fired. 

The tree cover was thick on this part of the field and soon units became broken up. Lines disintegrated, and men fought whatever enemy they could see. Sometimes it seemed as though the British were wavering, but always they came on again. At least an hour passed, perhaps more, of frantic weaving and dodging through the woods, ducking behind logs to reload and springing out again to fire. Merlin kept as close as he could to Arthur.

It was growing increasingly difficult to maintain his magic, though. His shirt was soaked with sweat, legs trembling. It had to end soon. Had to. 

And then the British cannons opened up, grapeshot pouring into the fighting men. Merlin had one horrifying second to realize that Cornwallis had given the order to fire regardless of the fact that his own men would be hit and then shot was singing around them, and men were screaming, and it was too much, too fast, he couldn’t hold all of them off—

A sudden, searing pain in his leg. Merlin cried out, stumbled, fell. He lost control of his magic, felt the shield disappear. Panting, gritting his teeth against the pain, he pushed himself up. He looked around frantically for Arthur. 

It was chaos, men desperately trying to escape the cannons, the ground littered with bodies. And then Merlin caught a glimpse of blue and a flash of blonde hair. Arthur—collapsed, crumpled on the ground. 

“No!” Merlin hobbled forward, his own wound forgotten. He fell to his knees next to Arthur, turned him over. Arthur’s eyes were closed. 

“Please. Please don’t be dead.” There was a spreading stain of blood over Arthur’s stomach, and Merlin tore feverishly at his jacket and shirt. “Arthur! Arthur, please!” 

Arthur’s eyes fluttered, and he moaned. “Merlin?” His voice was weak, filled with pain.

Merlin sucked in a breath of relief. But then he looked down and saw the wound. The shot had ripped into Arthur’s stomach. There was blood everywhere, and Arthur was losing more every second. Even if Lance had been standing right there, Merlin knew that he would have shaken his head, turned sadly away and gone to another man that he could help. 

“No, I will not let you die!” Merlin blinked away the tears that clouded his eyes. There was no time. He called to his magic and it flooded into him. But it was just like with his mother—just like with Will—he didn’t know what to do.

Arthur’s eyes slid shut again. Merlin reached out, grabbed his face with bloody hands. “Arthur! Arthur, look at me!” 

Slowly, Arthur blinked up at Merlin. “Merlin,” he whispered. “I’m glad—glad you’re here.”

“No. Don’t give up on me.” Merlin stared into Arthur’s eyes. He felt his magic welling up, and he poured it into Arthur’s body. Gave it to Arthur along with all his love, his need, his determination that Arthur would _live_.

“Merlin, your _eyes_ ,” he heard Arthur say, but Merlin couldn’t respond. Exhaustion, pain, the drain of his magic were overwhelming him. His last conscious thought was _Live. Live_. 

*

Lance secured the bandage around Merlin’s leg. “It was a bad wound, but I don’t think you’ll lose your leg,” Lance told him. “At least if we can keep it from getting infected. It seems to be healing well, though. Better than it was yesterday.” He clapped Merlin on the shoulder and moved off to tend to another patient. 

Reaching out, Merlin grabbed his crutches, slowly levering himself to his feet. He made his way through the rows of cots until he was standing next to Arthur’s. He sat down again with a sigh of relief. Arthur was still pale, but he was resting quietly. He had only woken up a few times since the battle and had been disoriented and weak, quickly falling asleep again.

Merlin felt his own eyes closing, head drooping forward to rest on his chest. He had spent most of his time sitting next to Arthur, ever since he had awoken to the burning pain of Lance digging metal out of his leg. Merlin had clutched at him desperately, demanding to know if Arthur was alive.

“Yes. He’s hurt, but he’ll live,” Lance had told him. “Now hold still.”

A hand on his leg jolted Merlin upright. He opened his eyes to find Arthur looking up at him. 

“You’re awake,” Merlin breathed, and he couldn’t stop himself from reaching out and smoothing a hand through Arthur’s hair. 

Arthur tried to talk, coughed, but finally managed to speak, his voice faint. “I woke up earlier this morning—must have fallen asleep again. When I asked about you, Lance said that he had finally gotten you to go sleep in a real bed for a few hours.” He paused a moment, gathering his breath. “You should go lie down, Merlin. Rest your leg.” 

“I’m fine,” Merlin protested, not wanting to leave Arthur. 

Arthur sighed, nodded. Merlin moved his chair closer so that he could hold Arthur’s hand without letting anyone see. 

“Merlin,” Arthur said after a moment. “What happened to me?” 

“You were shot,” Merlin said softly. “It was awful. I thought—thought you were going to die.”

“But I didn’t.” Arthur gripped Merlin’s hand. “What did you do, Merlin?” He started coughing again, and Merlin tried to get him to be quiet, but Arthur continued, determined. “I saw your eyes. They were— _golden_. And I felt— Lance says that I shouldn’t have survived. That he never saw anyone heal from a wound like that.”

Merlin couldn’t look at Arthur. “I have magic,” he finally said. “Ever since I was born. Gaius—” Merlin took a deep breath. “Gaius says that my magic isn’t unnatural. That—that it isn’t evil.”

There was a long silence. 

At last Arthur sighed. “Merlin. Merlin look at me.” 

Merlin slowly raised his head. 

“You mean it, don’t you?” Arthur shook his head. He studied Merlin’s hand, stroking the fingers. “ _Magic_.”

“Are you—afraid?” Merlin managed to choke out. “Do you think I’m evil?”

“You saved my life.” Arthur threaded their fingers together. “And I could never be afraid of you,” he added with a smile. 

“I’m sorry I never told you.”

Arthur shook his head again. “All this time,” he murmured. “And you’ve been there—always by my side.” 

They couldn’t kiss, not there, but Arthur bent down and pressed his lips to Merlin’s hand, quickly, gently. 

*

Greene had withdrawn from the field at Guilford Courthouse, leaving it in the hands of Cornwallis. Another missed chance at defeating the British once and for all. Cornwallis moved towards Virginia and entrenched in Yorktown. Washington, with his French allies, moved to encircle him.

When Cornwallis left, General Greene proceeded to advance against the British in the Carolinas, but Merlin and Arthur stayed behind.

“You both need to rest,” Lance told them firmly. “When you’re well enough to be moved, I suggest you return to Philadelphia.”

Arthur protested, of course, but he was still very weak. And it was apparent that Merlin was always going to walk with a slight limp, although his leg was getting stronger. So they stayed, listening to the reports of the war, arguing over what Washington should do, cheering when Greene forced the British to retreat to Charleston. Merlin was quite content to listen to accounts of battles as opposed to being in them himself, and he cherished every day that he got to spend with Arthur. He often read to Arthur in the afternoon—he had found an old, battered copy of Aristotle’s _On the Parts of Animals_. Arthur complained that it was boring. “I don’t want to hear about viscera, or teeth, or sea-urchins.” But when Merlin said he would stop, Arthur gave a put-upon sigh and pulled him back down into the chair. “Tis not as though there’s anything _else_ to do.”

One day when Merlin was reading, he stopped to turn a page, glanced over at Arthur and stuttered to a halt, suddenly captivated. Arthur’s eyes were closed, a slight smile on his lips. Merlin thought he could spend forever just looking at him. 

“What is it? Why have you stopped?” Arthur asked, opening his eyes and craning his neck to look at Merlin. 

Merlin flushed and hastily tried to find the correct page again. “Nothing.”

“It isn’t _nothing_ ,” Arthur replied, sounding amused. “What is it? Are you falling asleep? I told you it was boring.”

“No, it’s—” And Merlin found the words escaping from him, helpless to hold them back. “I think I love you.”

Arthur stared at him for a long moment. And then he closed his eyes again, settling back on the pillow, the same smile tugging at his mouth. 

*

At the end of the summer, they returned to Fairhill, Morgana insisting that country air and quiet, away from the bustle of the city, were best for Arthur. Arthur scowled, but grudgingly allowed her and Gwen to fuss over him. 

By the time autumn rolled around, Arthur was able to take walks around the estate. Merlin went with him, promising Gwen that he wouldn’t allow Arthur to tire himself out. 

“I think I’m breaking my promise,” Merlin said, watching Arthur pant and moan while Merlin stroked his cock. They were in the woods, lying in a patch of sunlight, surrounded by the smell of dried grass. Merlin paused. “Perhaps I should stop.”

“ _Merlin_ , if you stop, I swear I will—”

Merlin laughed, muffling Arthur’s protests with a kiss.

At the end October, they received the news that Cornwallis had surrendered. Leon returned home a few weeks later, and Morgana hosted a jubilant celebration. Everyone was certain that peace was at hand, that by spring, they would receive word that the king was willing to negotiate a treaty.

“I’m going to return to Philadelphia next week,” Arthur said one night. Merlin had snuck into his room, and they were lying, sated and tired, in the bed. “Father needs help with the business—the war has wreaked havoc on it. And since both our armies and the British seem content to wait around until word comes from Europe, there’s no point in re-joining.”

Merlin had known this moment was coming—when Arthur would go back to his old life, his old social circles. He tried to keep the sadness out of his voice when he answered, “Of course. I can’t go back either—with my leg like it is.” 

“I’ll come out to Fairhill as often as I can,” Arthur promised.

Merlin had enough money to pay off his debt to Leon, and a promised hundred acres of land awaited him in return for his service in the army. But he stayed on, saying that he was waiting for his leg to heal a bit more. Of course, he was really waiting for the times that Arthur came out to Fairhill. When Arthur found him in the stable and pressed him down into the hay. 

Spring slipped by and turned into summer. Franklin, Adams, and Jay were in Europe, negotiating a treaty. At the end of October, the French left, Rochambeau leading a final march to Boston. Merlin worked, visited Gaius, discussed the idea of going out west—perhaps the Ohio Valley—and staking a claim. But it was only talk. Most of the time, he spent waiting, thinking about the next time he could see Arthur. And then one day, Merlin overheard Gwen and Morgana talking. 

“Arthur seemed quite taken with Vivian,” Morgana said. “He danced with her practically the entire evening.”

Merlin felt a hot stab of hurt, and he hurried out of the house. He tried to hide it, but Arthur could tell something was wrong the next time they met. 

“I heard about Vivian,” Merlin finally snapped in response to Arthur’s questions.

Arthur’s jaw tightened, and he ran a hand through his hair. “We always knew this— _us_ —could not last.”

Merlin turned away so Arthur couldn’t see the tears in his eyes.

“Merlin.” Arthur put a hand on his shoulder that Merlin shrugged off. “We can still find a way to see each other. Not as frequently perhaps, but—”

“And the rest of the time you’ll be with your _wife_.” Merlin shut his eyes. 

“Then—then perhaps it would be better to end it,” Arthur said in a low voice. “To never see each other again.” 

“Yes,” Merlin said, voice stiff with control because the alternative was breaking down and crying. “Yes, I think that would be best.”

But despite his words, Merlin couldn’t end it. They kept seeing each other, kept kissing frantically, Arthur’s hands bruising his skin, both of them desperate to hold on, to remember. It was a bitter day at the end of December, just after word had come from Paris that the peace treaty with England had been signed, that Arthur finally told Merlin that they had to stop.

“I’m going to propose to Vivian next week. After Gwen and Lance’s wedding,” Arthur said, buttoning his shirt. 

“But, _why_?” Merlin hated how broken his voice sounded. 

“Taking over my father’s business, starting a family, owning a fine house in the city—that’s always been my future, Merlin.” Arthur faced him, and Merlin could see the anger flashing in Arthur’s eyes. “Do you have an alternative to that? Do you have a better idea?”

And Merlin wanted to spill out all the hopeless fantasies he had dreamed of—going away, somewhere, just the two of them. But Arthur would think him silly, naïve. And besides, Arthur had his family—his father, Morgana, Elaine. He had friends here, a comfortable life. Arthur would be rich, prosperous, respected. How could Merlin ask him to leave all that behind? How could he ask Arthur to choose between his family and Merlin? Between a certain future and a risky, nebulous one? 

So Merlin just shook his head. Arthur stood there a moment longer and then left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In 1781 Congress finally ratified the Articles of Confederation, the precursor to the Constitution. There were a lot of problems with the Articles, but probably the biggest was that power was dispersed among the states—the congress was pretty much powerless to act. 
> 
> One dimension of the war that I didn’t get to include was the war on the western frontier. The Ohio Valley, where Merlin is thinking of going to, saw a lot of fighting between British, Americans, and Indians. Many tribes allied with the British, but some Indians fought for the Americans as well. Native Americans lost a great deal in the war—American’s victory ensured that settlers would keep expanding westward, taking land. In fact, several states, particularly Virginia, had already laid claim to extensive portions of land extending out to the Great Lakes. Several smaller New England states refused to sign the Articles of Confederation unless Virginia gave up the land, stalling approval of the Articles for years. Virginia finally gave up their claims and the land passed into the control of Congress—setting the stage for the federal government’s active role in acquiring land for citizens, often through conquest, and distributing the land.


	9. Chapter 9

Gwen and Lance’s wedding was a small affair. With the Gradual Abolition Act, passed three years before, their marriage was no longer against the law, but no white minister would marry them. They had finally found a black minister who had agreed to perform the ceremony. The only people present were Gwen’s father, Arthur, and Morgana and Leon. He had half-thought that Merlin might be there—he was Gwen’s friend, after all. Arthur told himself that he was relieved when Merlin did not appear, trying to ignore the hollow ache of disappointment. 

Gwen was smiling, blushing a little, and Lance never took his eyes off her. They looked happy, and Arthur felt a surge of jealousy. Strong enough that he had to turn away for a moment. Morgana gave him a concerned glance, and Arthur managed to straighten up, give her a reassuring smile, and pretend that everything was fine. 

*

Gaius looked up as Merlin walked into his shop. “Merlin!” he exclaimed, pushing the stack of papers before him aside. “I hoped I would get to see you before you left.”

“I wasn’t going to leave without saying good-bye,” Merlin said, smiling. “And to thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”

Gaius gestured for him to take a seat. “I am glad I could help you, Merlin. I trust you will keep your promise—make notes of any interesting animals you observe. And if you can press any unusual plants you happen to come across, I should be most obliged.”

“I doubt the Ohio Valley will be that much different than here,” Merlin replied, “but of course I’ll make notes of my observations as best I can.”

“I think you should be set up to do quite well, what with the land bounty the government owes you. Stake a good claim, and I don’t doubt you will soon be a prosperous farmer.”

Merlin nodded half-heartedly. He had often thought that getting to live on his own farm again, like he had as a boy, would make him happy—had dreamed about it all those long years in London. But now—without Arthur—

“What is it, Merlin?” Gaius asked. “Something is troubling you.”

“It just—it seems as though nothing really changed.” Merlin stared down at the counter, running his fingers over the aged wood. “At the beginning of the war, I thought things would be different. All the talk of liberty and freedom and independence. And then—it was horrible, Gaius. The fighting and killing. And for what? The Articles guarantee the right to vote only to men of property. The slave trade remains untouched. It’s as though none of it _mattered_.” 

Gaius sighed. “These things take time, Merlin. You cannot change the world or men’s minds in a day or even a few years.” He put his hand on Merlin’s shoulders. “Think of it as an unfinished revolution.” 

“And—and Arthur—” Merlin stopped.

“What about Arthur?”

“I thought that he cared about me. As a friend,” Merlin added quickly. “That he didn’t mind that I was poor, uneducated. That I—that I was worth something more to him.” 

“And what makes you think that isn’t true?” Gaius frowned. “The last I saw Arthur, I felt he treated you with respect.”

“Respect,” Merlin repeated bitterly. _Arthur loves me. I know he does. But all we can do is nod politely when we meet, exchange a few meaningless pleasantries_. He couldn’t stand to hear the news that Arthur was going to marry Vivian. Couldn’t stand being here any longer with Arthur so close and yet completely out of his reach. So he had decided to leave and try to put all of this behind him. 

“You’re right,” Merlin forced himself to say. “Arthur has gotten better. I—I didn’t mean that.”

Gaius nodded and smiled again. “Now, I have a few books for you to take with you, Merlin. There won’t be much reading material out on the frontier, I’m afraid.”

Merlin thanked Gaius, managing to sound pleased and happy.

*

After the ceremony, Arthur congratulated Lance and Gwen, and then found himself talking with Gwen’s father. He had never had many words with Tom before, though Arthur knew he was a reputable blacksmith.

“Mr. DuLac is going to try to start a practice here in town,” Tom said. “I know many who will be glad of a good doctor at hand, though of course, he will not be able to make as much money as he might have done if…”

He trailed off, the unsaid thought _if he had not married my daughter_ hovering between them. 

“Lance has never minded such matters,” Arthur replied. “He thinks the world of Gwen, you know.”

“I know.” Tom smiled. 

The minister joined them, shaking both of their hands. “I am glad to have been of service this day,” he said. “It takes a man—and a woman—of true courage to make such a choice as they have.”

Tom nodded. “’Tis this air of freedom, I think. It has moved many men to rethink their place in the world.”

Tom and the minister moved off to speak with Leon, but Arthur remained standing there, frozen. 

Years of fighting—years of freezing in the mud and rain, of seeing comrades die in agony, of terror pounding through him as bullets rained through the air. He had argued over taxes, unjust laws, freedom from a tyrannical government. But at the heart it was about choice—the right to make a decision, to choose the course he thought best and pursue it. _It was about freedom—liberty._

That was what he had fought for. That was what he had almost died for. And now he was letting it be taken from him. He was surrendering his thoughts, his actions to the dictates and principles of others. 

Arthur strode to the door. He would not—could not let it end like this.

When he arrived at Fairhill, he looked in the stables, the out-building where Merlin slept—no sign of him. What if Merlin had decided to leave early? Arthur had heard from Morgana that Merlin planned to depart for the frontier next week, but what if— At last, Arthur caught sight of one of the farmhands, who told him that he thought Merlin was out repairing a fence in one of the fields. 

It was a gray and cloudy day, patches of snow interspersed with mud among the stubble. Arthur walked quickly, searching for Merlin, and finally spotted him in the corner of a field, struggling to lift a stone back into place in the wall. His ears were red from the cold, hair windblown, breeches stained with mud. Arthur stopped, watching him.

Merlin straightened up and saw Arthur. He looked surprised, and then a wary expression filled his eyes, as though he were waiting for Arthur to say something that would hurt him.

It was like being shot again, seeing such a look in Merlin’s eyes. Heart beating wildly, Arthur stepped closer, trying to find the words he wanted to say.

“Why did you come?” Merlin finally said, sounding miserable. 

“I wanted to see you.” 

“Well you saw me. So you can go away now.” Merlin’s shoulders were hunched, his head bowed, staring at the ground. 

Arthur swallowed. “Are you still planning on leaving next week, going to the frontier?”

Merlin nodded, not looking up. 

“I—I always wanted to travel. When I was a boy, I imagined myself as a ship captain, exploring the world, seeing new places.”

Merlin sighed. “Why are you telling me this?”

“There’s a whole continent out there, waiting to be explored,” Arthur said, gesturing towards the western horizon. “Who knows what we might find.”

A moment of silence, and then Merlin drew in a shuddering breath. “We?” he asked softly.

“Yes.” Arthur reached out and grabbed Merlin’s cold hands in his own. “We could go—just the two of us. Out there—no one would be watching. No one could try to stop us.” 

Merlin rubbed his thumb over Arthur’s fingers. “What would we do?”

“I don’t know.” Arthur laughed suddenly. “What does it matter? I can hunt; you have _magic_. I think we’ll survive.”

Merlin finally met his eyes. “And you would really do that for me?”

“Not just for you,” Arthur replied. “For myself, too. I couldn’t stand it if I lost you, Merlin.”

The cautious, uncertain look slowly faded from Merlin’s eyes. “I thought I was never going to see you again,” he said, brushing his fingers over Arthur’s face. “And now—” He pulled Arthur into a kiss. 

Arthur held him tightly. “I love you,” he whispered. “And we’ll be all right, you’ll see.”

They kissed again, lingering, gentle. Arthur slid down to sit on the ground, his back against the wall, pulling Merlin along with him. Merlin put his arm around Arthur’s shoulders.

Arthur gazed out at the forest. “What do you think we’ll discover out there?”

“ _In all things of nature there is something of the marvelous_ ,” Merlin quoted softly.

Arthur smiled. “I suppose we’ll have to take your books along.”

“Mmmm, perhaps a few,” Merlin murmured, pressing closer. “If we can manage it.”

“I think that together, we can manage anything,” Arthur replied. 

 

~The End~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote is from Aristotle. I took the idea of an “unfinished revolution” from Eric Foner’s _Reconstruction: America’s Unfinished Revolution_. The political leaders in Congress certainly did not want a widespread social rebellion—they wanted to maintain the status quo, but many of the ideas in the Constitution were later used to further social equality and justice—the abolition of slavery to name just one, which was already becoming a contentious topic in the eighteenth century. Pennsylvania passed a Gradual Abolition Act in 1780, which slowly allowed for slaves to gain their freedom over a period of years. The Act also repealed the 1725 law which had outlawed miscegenation, although a marriage such as Gwen and Lance’s would still have been viewed with deep disapproval by most people, who continued to hold very racist attitudes. Many states continued to have anti-miscegenation laws through the twentieth century. They were finally ruled unconstitutional by the Supreme Court in 1967, but not until 2001, when Alabama finally repealed their law, were they completely removed.


End file.
